


Enraptured

by Quillbreaker



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2020-08-23 11:01:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 54
Words: 79,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20241763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillbreaker/pseuds/Quillbreaker
Summary: This is a rework of Keira Andrew's "Kidnapped by a Pirate"... Kindly do not accuse me of Plagiarism again because I am not gaining any financial profit from this and the only reason I am putting this work back up is because all my readers have insisted on it.The summary:Harry never thought that a bloody savage pirate would be the one to free him from the strict and conservative world of his Mentor.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RikaAzumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RikaAzumi/gifts), [StarOfFeanor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarOfFeanor/gifts), [Zaya_destal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaya_destal/gifts), [KTarooR](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KTarooR/gifts), [It_is_I](https://archiveofourown.org/users/It_is_I/gifts).

> Dedicated to everyone who was following Enraptured and supported me and encouraged me to put it back up.

If pirates were to be the bloody, savage end of Harry Potter, he wished they’d get on with it.

The windswept deck was damp beneath his bare feet, prompting thoughts of the dewy grass of home. What he wouldn’t give for the freedom to run across the fields of Hogwarts, wind rushing in his ears over the steady thump of his heart, the world falling away in his wake.

Instead he was confined by an endless, restless sea taunting him with its wildness. He’d heard countless tales of villainous pirates and their dastardly deeds. People spoke as if the ocean teemed with them, but the voyage had been mile after mile of…_nothing._

Harry shook his head at his foolishness. Not that he actually wanted pirates to attack their ship and massacre them. If only he could _move,_ he would keep boredom at bay.

He gripped the railing, longing for dirt beneath his nails, scratches on his palms from tree bark as he climbed and explored, wonderfully aching muscles from hours in the lake. If he could only run a simple mile. Hardly any distance at all, but trapped on the ship, that much clear land would be a marvel.

He wiped sea spray from his eyes. If only the ability to run and jump and swim was worth anything at all in his world instead of being childish folly he was supposed to have outgrown. Men did not climb trees or swim for hours, and certainly they didn’t run for the sheer pleasure of it the way he had at Hogwarts.

Of course, the estate wasn’t there anymore, sold off to pay debts, so even if he made his way back one day, he would never return to those rolling hills. Its verdant trees and round, tranquil lake would now be home to someone else.

No, for the foreseeable future, home would be a new colony, his mentor, Albus Dumbledore desperately wanted to see flourish. Albus Dumbledore had found his fortunes in England not the least bit fortunate, and as a governor in the New World had the thing he loved most dearly: power.

Harry’s future bride waited there. Ginny Weasley stood to inherit quite a fortune, and for the colony…and Albus…to thrive, alliances had to be made. So, Harry would do the only useful thing he could and marry.

He brushed a fresh spray of briny seawater from his face as he stared out at the endless night, keeping a firm hold on the rail. His untucked shirt flapped in the breeze, the lower fastenings on his breeches unbuckled under his knees.

In the dark, there was no one to comment on his state of undress, and he supposed the crew didn’t care anyway. His raven black hair curled at the ends in the dampness, and he tucked a lock behind his ear. It had been his little act of rebellion to keep it longer than most gentlemen. He certainly wouldn’t be wearing dreaded wigs, either, if he could help it.

Clouds conspired to hide the stars and razor-thin crescent of moon. He shivered in the late September night’s chill; he really should have worn his hated shoes and jacket.

At least the wind was no longer the bitter cold of the mid-Atlantic as they neared the West Indies. He shifted back and forth on his feet, lifting them like a racehorse stamping at the starting line.

The _Phoenix_ was fairly large, a merchant ship carrying a cargo of salt fish and forged metal tools to the colonies. But when he’d attempted even a light trot around the main deck, the crew had reacted with consternation at best, hostility at worst. Running was his very favorite activity and the thing he excelled at most in life, much to his mentor’s disgust. Swimming in the lake in summertime, cutting through the placid water with sure, even strokes, was a joy as well.

To be surrounded now by endless water but unable to dive in and soothe his cramped muscles was the worst torture. He’d asked the captain if he could at least climb the mast or sail rigging and had been flatly refused.

So, he stood by the starboard rail and sometimes paced, careful to stay out of the crew’s way. At least he had been told their progress was swift, and that after a month’s voyage…thirty-one days and some thirteen hours since they left England, to be exact, they would reach the island in a fortnight if the wind held.

He was informed that some ships took several months to reach the colonies. Ships could leave London the same day and arrive weeks or more apart.

Staring out at the nothingness, he stopped his restless shifting and squinted. The weak sliver of moon had valiantly escaped the clouds for a moment, and Harry thought he spotted a strange kind of movement. The night took on shape before becoming uniform once more.

Perhaps it had been a great ocean creature surfacing, a whale or giant squid, or some kind of mysterious monster.

He chuckled. Earlier that evening, Luna had read aloud fables from one of the old leather-bound tomes they’d brought from Hogwarts, and his imagination was clearly running wild. She’d always been far too imaginative and indulgent, and he knew she’d packed books he’d favour, although she certainly had a taste for adventurous tales rather than the sentimental stories ladies were supposed to read. They’d both enjoyed the diary of a naval captain who’d served on several ships of the line and described life aboard in vivid detail.

Although the cabin Harry and Luna shared was tiny, at least they had privacy. He really should re-join her in their cabin to sleep and end another interminable day, but the walls closed in on him, and it felt like a prison.

For the hundredth time, he wondered what his life on the new colony would be like. The colony was only a few years old, and there had been whispers of struggles with agriculture and trade, rumours of corruption and settlers packing up already.

He’d be forced to work and acquire some respectable job procured for him, like Luna’s husband, Neville. Neville was thirty and penniless, but of good breeding and an agreeable disposition. He and Luna had insisted on each other.

Neville seemed happy enough to do Albus’s bidding, including leaving early for the new colony some months ago, not knowing at the time that Luna was with child. When Albus Dumbledore made a demand, it was met.

Luna and Neville had hated to be parted, but she was needed to oversee the packing up of the estate and auction of the more valuable items. Certainly, it couldn’t have been left to Harry, who wouldn’t have known where to begin given he’d spent as much time outside away from the ornate house as he could.

Harry had considered refusing when he and Luna were summoned. But what would he do? Where would he live? His marriage to Ginny had been agreed upon and should he fail in his duty, Albus would disown him. He’d have nothing, not even a roof over his head.

Bile rose in his throat. No, that wouldn’t do. So onward to the new colony he went, to marry as his mentor saw fit. All he knew of Ginny Weasley was that she’d lived with her wealthy family for some years in Jamaica before her father joined forces with Albus to establish a shipping company.

Well, he also knew her writing was unfailingly neat, and from Luna’s recounting of the letter, that Ginny enjoyed needlework and greatly looked forward to sharing her life with him.

He’d received her letter just before leaving England and had burned it in the grate in his room. At least the voyage was a worthy excuse for not responding. And as much as he’d wished to stay in England, he couldn’t allow Luna to sail the perilous Atlantic alone.

Although with how smooth their journey had been, completely lacking in beasts of the deep or even a gale of note, he apparently hadn’t needed to fret. Still, it was done.

He’d accepted years ago that he was feeble-minded, and although he knew he should be grateful for the opportunity to hold a position of at least some stature on the new colony, he dreaded the notion of truly being under Albus’s thumb once more.

It had been blissful having Albus overseas for years. He supposed he should feel remorse for such churlish thoughts, but there was so much else to consume his stores of guilt. So much else indeed.

He turned away from the rail, resigning himself to another long night in the swaying hammock. Luna was of course sleeping in the cot. The cry from above pierced the night, and Harry jumped a mile.

“Sails!”

In the flurry of activity and shouts, he pressed himself to the ship’s side as the crew emerged from the hull like ants. Harry squinted into the darkness, turning to and fro and seeing nothing.

Then he spotted it…the hulk of a ship emerging from the night, not a single light flickering upon it, drawn to The _Phoenix_ like a moth to flame. With a sickening twist of his stomach, he realized he had indeed spotted a monster, and it was upon them.


	2. Chapter 2

He raced down to the cabin, bursting inside. White blonde curls unpinned and tumbling over her shoulders, Luna bolted up on the cot, her book thudding to the floor. One hand pressed to her round belly, she cried out,

“What is it?”

Harry could hardly believe the words as he uttered them,

“I think it’s pirates.”

Had he wished them into existence by grumbling over boredom? The blood drained from Luna’s sweet, heart shaped face,

“Pirates?”

He threw open a trunk and dug for his sheathed dagger, cursing himself for not raising the alarm sooner,

“I don’t know what else it could be.”

His mind raced, thoughts jumbled as he grasped the hilt of the weapon and tossed the leather scabbard aside. The thunder of the crew’s footsteps shook the ceiling, dust motes shaking loose and shouts filling the air. Luna looked down at her nightgown, despairing.

“There’s no time for petticoats or any of that nonsense.”

She threw her flowing green gown over her head, her voice muffled by it.

“Oh my, it really is pirates, isn’t it? Oh, I think I’m stuck.”

Harry helped tug the material down over her swollen belly. She emerged from the folds of soft fabric and peered up at the ceiling, as if she could see through the hull. Footsteps scuffled and thumps reverberated, tense voices shouting commands too distant to make out clearly.

Luna whispered,

“No gunshots. Must be too many. The crew isn’t fighting them. Help me pin this shut.”

She had stopped wearing her corset, adopting what was apparently a new French style while she was with child. After he’d pinned the material enough that the robe-like gown would stay put, drawing a prick of blood from his fingertip in his haste, Harry yanked on his stockings and refastened his breeches below his knees before jamming his feet into his buckled shoes. He wouldn’t face these savages in a state of undress.

He tucked the dagger into the back of his trousers and whipped on his sleeveless waistcoat, fingers clumsy on the buttons. But there was no time for his cravat or jacket. Raised voices already echoed down the corridor. He spun about, belatedly hoping to find something to bar the door. Luna had apparently had the same thought,

“The trunks aren’t heavy enough. Besides, it will only anger them. It’s no use.”

He urged her to the back of the cabin, which was barely wider than the breadth of one’s outstretched arms.

“Get behind me.”

Luna spoke softly,

“Be sure to mind your tongue. You know how thoughts can sometimes go right from your head and out your mouth without pausing for assessment.”

Harry huffed,

“What exactly do you think I’m going to say to pirates?”

She slapped his shoulder.

“Shh!”

They waited, listening. More pounding footsteps, and shouts that possessed an undeniably feral quality. The hair on Harry’s body stood on end, his mouth going dry. Perhaps the pirates would pass them by. Perhaps they’d plunder the cargo and be done with it. Perhaps…

The door burst open, almost flying off its hinges, and Harry barely held in his yelp. His heart drummed so loudly he was certain the two invaders could hear. One of them brushed matted hair from his eyes. They both wore ripped and stained trousers as baggy as their shirts, and their boots were worn out. The long-haired man’s beady gaze raked them up and down, and he asked his squat companion,

“You ever bed a bitch with pup?”

Harry’s stomach swooped. _How do they know?_ Luna was hidden behind him. He lifted his chin, forcing strength to his words.

“You shan’t lay so much as one filthy finger on her.”

Ignoring him, the squat man leered, baring uneven, yellow teeth. He answered his friend’s question,

“Good and juicy, I tell you.”

Behind him, Luna dug her fingers into his shoulder. Heart in his throat, he yanked the dagger from the waist of his breeches, brandishing it toward the pirates,

“Stay back!”

The two blinked at Harry, then each other, before bursting into raucous laughter. The long-haired man said,

“Oh no, we’re done for, Scabior!”

Heavy footfalls sounded in the corridor, brazen and commanding. Spines snapping straight, the pirates stepped aside as a man filled the doorway, shoulders almost brushing the frame. He was tall enough to duck slightly as he entered, and his sharp gaze swept the cabin, which had never seemed quite so small.

He wore black from head to gold-tipped toes—open-collared shirt, trousers tucked into knee-high boots, and a long leather coat that flared out behind him. A pistol was tucked into his wide belt, and a cutlass winked from his hip. Gold gleamed on the belt buckle, matching the small square earring in his left ear, rings on his fingers, and the tips of those black boots.

The ends of a red sash dangled over his hip, the only splash of colour aside from the gold. He had to be twice Harry’s age, although he could be wrong. He had sharp, handsome features, high cheekbones and sinful lips. His dark hair was tied back in a neat fashion, a surprise since Harry had expected all pirates to have dirty, matted, unruly hair like the animals they were. In the low light, the colour of his narrowed eyes was impossible to ascertain, but Harry imagined they must be as black as the pirate’s soul. He might have been the very devil himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry’s palm sweated around the handle of the dagger, and he hated the tremors in his outstretched arm. His throat was painfully dry, and he croaked,

“We…we don’t have anything of value. No gold or jewels worth your effort.”

Luna added,

“Even my wedding ring is plated.”

Mundungus, one of the _Phoenix’s _crew, had entered the cabin. The man…the pirate captain, undoubtedly…glanced to him. Mundungus nodded.

“’It’s true. Only clothin’ and trinkets in their trunks.”

He sniffed dismissively, tossing his mangy hair,

“Nothin’ hidden anywhere in here we could find since we left London.”

Harry had thought better of the crew, but saw now how naïve he’d been. It must have been Mundungus who had informed the pirates that Luna was with child,

“You’re a coward, Mundungus.”

He snorted.,

“As soon as I got a good look at the flag, I knew we were done for. Everyone knows The Dark Lord will gut you from stem to stern once you’re in his hands. I ain’t dying for cargo I don’t give a damn about and a captain who treats us like garbage.”

The pirate…The Dark Lord…demanded, his tone low and calm.

“Your destination is Godric’s Hollow?”

Harry tightened his hold on the dagger and answered,

“Yes, it’s a new colony.”

Mundungus nodded,

“Her husband’s there. We’re to drop them off with their mentor. The old man’s the guvnor or some such thing.”

At this, The Dark Lord seemed to jolt, but a moment later the ripple had vanished and he was still again, fearsome and dispassionate. Harry thought he must have imagined the hiccup. Yet a gleam entered the captain’s devilish eyes, and dread slithered through Harry. The Dark Lord loomed nearer and demanded, in the same deliberate but undeniable manner,

“Your name, boy.”

Heart hammering, all he could manage was,

“Uh…”

Mundungus offered,

“This one’s called Harry Potter.”

The captain repeated, barely a whisper now,

“Potter?” Son of James Potter? Albus Dumbledore’s heir?”

Fingers going numb around the dagger, Harry nodded. He’d have bruises where Luna clung to him, her sharp exhalations ghosting over the nape of his neck. There was no sense denying it,

“James Potter was my father. Albus Dumbledore is my mentor.”

The captain’s focus sent chills down Harry’s spine,

“You’re the boy whose parents were murdered…the orphan?”

He couldn’t hide his wince, and had to nod. His parents had been murdered during a burglary when he had been less than a year old and it was well known that they were supposed to be under Dumbledore’s protection and Dumbledore had failed in that task. The old man had never been married but he had wanted an heir to take after his fortune. So, after his parent’s death, Dumbledore had taken him under his wing and attempted to mould him into the perfect gentleman…the perfect heir… Luna had been the one that had told him about his parent’s murder after Harry’s endless badgering when he was a lad. Strange how he could experience the aching, hollow absence of a touch…his mother’s touch… he could never really remember feeling even after eighteen years.

The captain’s eyes glinted evilly. Good God, the man was tall. Harry was tall enough, five feet and seven inches or so, but this monster towered well over six feet. It was all Harry could do to hold his ground and not stagger back against Luna. The tip of his blade quivered mere inches from the villain’s black heart.

The Dark Lord gazed down at them as though they were prey he was most eager to consume,

“Your mentor is a liar. Corrupt. An evildoer in silk stockings and a curled wig.”

Harry swallowed hard, hand shaking. Could he lunge and push the dagger into this vile man’s heart? Not that he had much love for his mentor, but who was a _pirate_ to talk of evildoers?

The Dark Lord’s eyes glowed with hatred,

“Your mentor cheated me. He was tasked with justice, with fairness. Instead he conspired to steal from me. He branded me a pirate when I was a privateer.”

Harry blurted out,

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

As the Dark Lord’s nostrils flared, Luna dug her nails into Harry’s shoulder. The pirate gritted out,

“No, they bloody are not. Privateers are licensed. Legal. Privateers follow rules. Laws. Just as your mentor was supposed to as a judge in the Court of Admiralty. Your mentor tried to strip me and my men of everything we’d worked and suffered for. We escaped him, but in the years, that have followed, he has never paid the price.”

Dread consumed Harry. His mentor’s greed and avarice would once again bring suffering. If not for Albus’s mounting debts, Harry and Luna would still be safe at home, waiting until she had her baby before making the journey. Hogwarts wouldn’t have had to be sold at all, and now they faced God knew what at the mercy of pirates.

_Oh Lord. Please spare Luna and her child!_

Bile rose in his throat at the thought of any harm coming to Luna, terror clammy on his skin. Sweat slipped down Harry’s spine,

“I…”

He racked his brain for something…anything…to say, some means of escape. His dagger shook, and he licked his dry lips.

“I’m sorry.”

He had to _fix_ this.

A slow, ghastly smile curled the devil’s lips,

“You will be.”


	4. Chapter 4

Voldemort ignored the boy’s trembling dagger, nodding to his men,

“Relay these orders to Snape: Confiscate any cargo worth taking. Leave the ship and crew unharmed and with enough food and water to survive. The lady shall continue to Godric’s Hollow. Unmolested.”

As the men scurried out, followed by the sailor who had happily given up all the_ Phoenix_’s secrets, he gazed down at Albus Dumbledore’s precious heir,

“Your journey shall be delayed.”

The boy spoke,

“De—delayed?”

He was smooth-faced and slim, long-legged with startling green eyes. His shoulder length, unruly raven black hair screamed defiance and curled, damp with sweat. He’d missed a button on his dark waistcoat, and it hung askew above his white shirt and tan breeches. His black, square-toed shoes were surprisingly scuffed, white stockings bunched at one ankle. Red splotches flushed his pale cheeks. He was a pretty little thing and had surely been untroubled by hard work a day in his life.

“You’re coming with us.”

The woman cried out. Voldemort almost laughed as the boy screwed up his courage and lunged. With a simple twist and squeeze, Voldemort liberated him of the dagger, which was constructed of fine steel in a simple wooden handle,

“Don’t hurt yourself, boy. Your mentor won’t pay for a carcass.”

He spied the dagger’s sheath on the floor and held out an imperious hand for it. The boy bent and reluctantly handed it to him. Voldemort tucked the weapon into his belt. The woman sputtered,

“Pay? But he hardly has any money!”

Voldemort assessed her. Modestly expensive gown, yet paste jewels. He took a step forward, and they jerked back as one. He asked,

“And how did that come to pass?”

He likely knew most of the story, but perhaps these two could impart new information. She inched around to stand by the boy’s side, clutching his hand,

“He’s squandered everything on his dream for Godric’s Hollow. He managed to win the governorship, but if not for the Crown’s money to establish the new colony, he barely has a thing.”

_Bloody son of a bitch couldn’t even spend my prize wisely after he stole it._ The _basilisk_ had been laden with spices, gold, and tons of uncoined silver. Voldemort still cringed when he remembered how proud he’d been to appear at the Court of Admiralty with his hard-won plunder those years ago. Ready to give England her share in accordance with regulations, doing his part in the war. What a fool he’d been. He pretended to mull it over,

“In that case, I’ll offer him the fairness he denied me.”

Both of them exhaled, shoulders slumping in relief. The girl said,

“Thank you, sir. Whatever it was our mentor did, I swear…”

“I’ll give him a month to gather the funds before our arrival. A hundred thousand pounds.”

As one, their jaws dropped. The boy gasped,

“It’s too much!”

Possibly, but an arrogant man who valued his heir would find a way. Dumbledore’s pride would demand it. Besides, Voldemort hadn’t waited years for revenge to go easy on the swine now. Ignoring their dismay, he announced,

“Around about the night of the next dark moon, we will arrive at Godric’s Hollow and announce ourselves. Your mentor will personally row out a skiff into the harbor. Alone. He will meet my ship. I will exchange his heir for the ransom. Simple.”

They both locked gazes, hopelessness passing between them, tears slipping down the girl’s cheeks. Voldemort understood their dread. Their terror. Remembering his own after being unfairly sentenced by their mentor, he reveled in their misery. She cried,

“Sir, have pity! Harry has committed no sin.”

He laughed,

“Pity? Your mentor created me: The Dark Lord Voldemort. And I have become the monster he bore and so very much more. And your precious Harry will only be the first to suffer if Dumbledore doesn’t comply. Tell your father that his precious Godric’s Hollow will bleed and burn unless he meets my demands.”

She opened her mouth to speak again, but he was tired of her calls for mercy and cut her off,

“No treachery, and he lives. But if Dumbledore plots against me…”

He kept his voice low. A calm utterance was sometimes more menacing than a shout. He peered intently at the boy, who had wrapped an arm around his sister’s shaking shoulders.

“If your mentor defies me, this boy dies. Painfully. _Slowly_. I will gut him like a fish, slice him into pieces, and deliver them to your mentor one by one.”

He had been so very patient in his revenge, and this was his moment. He grasped hold of it with both hands, giving no quarter. She gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth. The boy’s chest rose and fell rapidly, but he kept his chin up. The woman’s eyes overflowed with more tears.

“Please, I beg you. Let him come with me. He’s to be married! We’re starting a new life! He’s never harmed another creature. He’s kind and good.”

Voldemort sighed to himself. _Enough of this._ He curled his tongue into his cheek and gave her a leering appraisal,

“If you prefer to take his place…”

The boy shouted,

“No!”

The boy’s eyes burned with a fierceness he had lacked before now and made his eyes emerald eyes glow with unearthly beauty,

“I’ll do whatever you say. Just don’t harm Luna.”

Voldemort’s lips curled up. If he were a tender-hearted type, he’d almost be touched. As it was, well…

Breathing hard, the boy yanked the girl into a hug,

“I’ll be all right. I love you, Luna.”

She clung to him,

“Don’t go. Don’t let him take you.”

Wishing he could roll his eyes, Voldemort hauled the boy from the cabin, dragging him out by the scruff of his neck. He didn’t fight, apparently surrendering to his fate for his sister’s sake, or perhaps having used up his shred of bravery.


	5. Chapter 5

Wishing he could roll his eyes, Voldemort hauled the boy from the cabin, dragging him out by the scruff of his neck. He didn’t fight, apparently surrendering to his fate for his sister’s sake, or perhaps having used up his shred of bravery.

The girl would have been no use…if Voldemort recalled correctly, Albus Dumbledore had adopted a girl and a boy. But, the official heir was the boy. The boy was to be the one to carry on his name that he’d obsessed over and valued above anything else. And now here was that very boy, in his grasp.

Why the Fates had blessed this night so roundly, he’d never know, but he wouldn’t question it. Not every wind blew such good luck into his sails. Here was his opportunity for revenge at last.

Would the old fool be able to raise the money? Perhaps. Most likely, given his connections. But at the very least, Voldemort held his precious legacy in his grip. Oh, what he would give to see the old man’s face when he heard the news.

Voldemort laughed out loud, his delight echoing off the water all around. He shoved the boy toward Snape at the rail,

“Behold our prize, Mr. Quartermaster. Albus Dumbledore’s precious heir.”

Snape was taller than Harry and even though his lean physique did not seem like it, he was incredibly agile and considerably strong. His silver-wreathed fingers gripped Harry’s arm ruthlessly.

Dark eyes meeting Voldemort’s beneath his curtain of dark hair, Snape grinned menacingly, earrings glinting in the torchlight. Snape’s black shirt gaped at the neck, revealing an anchor tattoo just below his throat. He had five or six tattoos hammered into his flesh.

After confirming his orders with Snape, Voldemort passed on the ransom demand to the merchant captain, a salty old seaman who merely shrugged and nodded, the boy’s life clearly of no concern. Harry watched the exchange with obvious dismay.

For his part, Snape eyed young Harry with nothing more than a raised brow on his sallow face.

“Come on, then. Over you go.”

The boy blinked at the long wooden plank connecting the merchant ship to _The Death Eater._ He glanced over his shoulder toward the stairs below decks, where his sister’s sobs echoed. His body flexed, as though to run, or take flight. He stepped forward and spoke, smirking,

“Now, now, none of that. Where would you even escape to?”

A darkness in him fed on the boy’s terror.

“Unless you plan to be shark food, there’s only one place for you to go now.”

He turned his gaze to the shadowy hulk of his ship, its sleek sails temporarily furled, the crew following his orders to the letter. It had been his home for years, yet he grew restless. This was it. This was bloody well it.

Revenge would finally be his. Up until tonight, Voldemort’s luck had been running out. He’d felt it. Either he’d meet his fate at the bottom of the sea, run through on a blade, or at the end of a hangman’s noose. Now, here the boy stood, like a living, breathing chance at regaining at least some of what he’d lost.

Perhaps even a chance at a new life. It was foolishness, but… _Maybe._

“Up you get.”

Snape pushed the boy to the plank,

“The Dark Lord is not a patient man, I warn you. Nor am I.”

Breathing hard, the boy climbed up, legs visibly trembling. He looked over at the _Death Eater_, then back at Voldemort. Then down at the waves. He knew what the boy was thinking and snarled, vaulting up behind him.

“Don’t even think about some noble sacrifice. Or we’ll take your sister after all. She won’t be so pretty when we’re done with her.”

He grabbed the boy by the nape again and ordered,

“Move.”

After his boots hit the familiar deck, he marched the prisoner to the stern and stood surveying the crew, still holding the boy fast. When the plank was raised and hooks released from the _Phoenix,_ Voldemort shouted orders to set sail. In the grey hint of dawn, they caught the wind.

Even weighted with the pilfered cargo, _The Death Eater_ was the faster ship. Voldemort remained astern regardless, watching to be sure the merchant vessel didn’t make any attempt at following. Stranger things had happened. The boy shivered beside him, fists clenched and lips pressed tight, watching the _Phoenix_ grow smaller in their wake.

Some pirates favoured warships, but he preferred the agility of a sloop, its forty-six men a lean crew compared to some ships. Fewer men to share prizes with. Fewer men to cause trouble.

Voldemort’s mind whirled. For most of his years, he’d dreamed of a life on the waves, but he’d never wanted piracy. Albus Dumbledore had given him no choice. There was no possibility of restoring his tarnished honour, but with his share of the ransom, perhaps he could escape the brutality.

Maybe he could find…somewhere. A quiet stretch of island, beyond England’s reach. To know peace on his own terms. He’d be alone, but he was long accustomed to that.

A distant pang twinged, dull after all this time. Years ago, he’d imagined finding a mate, a man to share his life with. Even to love. Such absurdity.

Voldemort centered his mind on the task at hand, peering into the distance. They were well away, so he hauled the boy below decks to his cabin, ignoring his yelp.

There was just enough murky light through the stern windows to see without bothering with the tinderbox. His desk sat at the rear, bed built into the wall opposite it, on the other side of the cabin’s open space. In that space, Voldemort crossed his arms and eyed his captive up and down.

“Boy…”

The boy huffed,

“I’m eighteen years old.”

Voldemort had to laugh, a sharp exhalation,

“Are you now?”

At one and forty, Voldemort could barely remember being so damned young,

“Listen, _boy_. Here’s how it will be.”

The boy cut him off again,

“My name is…”

He was growing incensed with the boy’s interruptions and barked,

“Unimportant,”

The boy’s name didn’t matter. In fact, it was easier this way.

“You are merely cargo. My treasure, my prize, my possession. That is all you are until your mentor pays what I’m owed. I would put you in the hold, but the men would be tempted to have at you, and your mentor wouldn’t want what was left. Do you understand…Boy?”

It was all the name the prisoner needed aside from his accursed surname. Not waiting for an answer, he opened a trunk by the starboard hull and dug out a scratchy wool blanket he rarely used, tossing it. It hit the boy in the chest and pooled at his feet. Voldemort nodded to the corner by the windows.

“Sleep there.”

The boy snatched the blanket from the floor and straightened unsteadily.

“For the next month while your mentor gathers funds, you will not be leaving this cabin, so food and water will be brought to you. Don’t speak to any of the crew. Don’t speak to me, unless spoken to. Nod if you understand.”

The boy blurted out with horror written plain on his boyish face,

“I can’t leave this cabin?”.

Voldemort took a stride forward, gratified when the boy jerked back,

“Clearly you do _not_ understand.”

The boy’s breath came quickly, chest heaving,

“It’s… It’s just…please. I won’t be any trouble. Can’t I go up to the deck at times? To stretch my legs?”

He raked his gaze down and back up, instilling fear with a leering snarl,

“Be grateful I’m not chaining you to the bed…Naked.”

The boy’s emerald green eyes widened, darting to the mattress. Voldemort turned on his heel and fetched the key from his desk. Now that they’d settled that, he’d…

“I could work! Up on deck. Help the crew with…whatever it is they do.”

Disbelieving, Voldemort straightened to his full height and whirled, making sure…yes, his coat flared behind him. He hadn’t garnered the the Dark Lord’s fearsome reputation without some dramatics. Yet incredibly, the boy _kept talking._

“I’d be happy to work.”

His eyes implored, fingers twisting in the blanket,

“I’d do anything you say.”

Clearly bloody not, as the command to shut his damn mouth had already been tossed aside. Voldemort sneered,

“Work? _You_? Tell me, have you worked a single day in your delicate little life?”

Cheeks red, the boy stared at his scuffed shoes in answer,

“You will stay in this cabin, and you will only speak when spoken to. But I’m not wholly cruel.”

He waved his arm magnanimously at the bookshelf,

“Read all you like.”

Harry looked at the volumes with a strange sort of despair bordering on disdain, his shoulders slumping even lower. Fury sparked, and iron dug into his palm as Voldemort gripped the key,

“Is my library not to your liking, _my lord_?”

The boy answered meekly, backing up a step,

“No, no. I’m sure it’s excellent,”.

“You’re a privileged little bastard and you will sit down, shut up, and pray your snake of a mentor pays the money he owes. Or you’ll be the one who pays…you and your sister and her babe.”

In truth, Voldemort would never harm an innocent woman or child…or permit his crew to do so…but the boy didn’t have to know that,

“Am I understood?”

Head down, he whispered,

“Yes.”

Voldemort crossed to the door in two long strides. He slammed it behind him, put the key in the lock, and…

Nothing.

Iron grated as the stubborn lock refused to turn. Voldemort jiggled it for a few moments. Of all the times for the lock to seize up, it had to be when he was terrifying a prisoner. Jaw clenched, he threw open the door again. The boy still stood where he’d left him, clutching the blanket.

Tugging his arm roughly, Voldemort dragged him out of the cabin, hollering,

“Nott! Fix the bloody lock. You have ten minutes.”

He smiled humourlessly at Harry,

“It seems you have a momentary reprieve. It will be the last.”


	6. Chapter 6

None too gently, Voldemort tugged him along to the ladder to the main deck. Harry glimpsed the crew’s quarters at the bow of the ship, a cramped space, dark and stinking of sweat and mildew and heaven knew what else.

A cook was toiling over a stove, men stowing their hammocks as the sun rose and pulling out long tables for eating. Then Harry was roughly pushed up the ladder.

On deck, he inhaled the cool, fresh air gratefully, the sun blinding where it peeked just over the horizon. He soaked in all the sights and smells around him, the threat of a month alone in the pirate captain’s cabin filling him with dread that threatened to undo him. The confinement of a ship was awful enough. To be trapped in that one room? His stomach curdled.

He gazed about, heart lurching as he spotted sails in the distance. Was it the _Phoenix_? Must have been, since no one paid it any mind. Harry watched glumly as it shrank to a speck.

But Luna was safe, and that was what mattered. He hated that she would be alone for the rest of her journey, especially in her delicate state. Guilt pricked, even though he knew there was not a thing he could do.

He glared at the captain, who at least had released Harry from his vile grasp. The rising sun showed the pirate’s eyes to be a surprisingly soft brown. The little square gold earring gleamed.

The quartermaster, a Mr. Snape according to the captain’s gruff greeting, approached,

“Captain, the men want to eat some of the salt fish we took. Shall it be given to the Cook?”

Voldemort spoke disinterestedly,

“Aye.”

Harry’s stomach grumbled at the thought of food, but he’d starve before asking Captain Voldemort—no, simply _Voldemort_, because he didn’t deserve any title of prestige or honour. As Voldemort and Mr. Snape walked some feet away, conferring in tones so low he couldn’t overhear, Harry examined his prison.

_The Death Eater_ was a single-masted sloop that had likely once been a merchant vessel. Thick coils of rope crowded the ship. If there had originally been an aft deck near the stern, Harry suspected it had been removed to add more guns. He counted fourteen around the top deck, which was about sixty feet from bow to stern and flat the whole way across.

From a distance, the sloop would appear lower in the water. It would also make for good running, and Harry’s feet itched to race from bow to stern, around the ship’s massive wheel, and back again.

He wasn’t sure how many pirates toiled aboard, but he guessed forty-five or fifty men. They seemed to be a piecemeal lot, men of all colours, ages, and sizes, some with long hair, some short; some with cleaner faces and others with ratty beards.

Many wore loose pants, but some wore form-fitting. Tattoos and piercings decorated bare skin. One man in a leather vest had dark ink so thick on his arms that Harry at first thought he was wearing a shirt.

High above, a lookout perched on the yard, holding onto the mast. The pirate black still fluttered against the sky, this flag emblazoned with a skull, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue.

As he watched, men yanked on the ropes to lower the flag, keeping it out of sight to lure in the ship’s next victims. He lowered his gaze from the sails and rigging. Voldemort and Snape now seemed to be talking about him, eyeing him in such a way that the hair on Harry’s arms stood on end.

Unable to bear their scrutiny, he turned to look out at the waves, skin crawling. Wind rushed in his ears, and he wasn’t sure whether or not to be grateful he couldn’t make out their words.

The truth was, he had a terrible suspicion Voldemort was quite overestimating Harry’s worth to his mentor. It was accurate that Albus had wanted an heir with a fervour bordering on obsession, or so Harry had always been told. Harry suspected Albus’s greater sorrow was Harry’s utter failure to be the heir he’d desired so fervently.

To say he had been a disappointment quite understated the matter. For a moment, he allowed himself the childish yearning for the mother he’d never known. She’d given her life for his, and he was certain the trade had not been worthy. How he would have let her down too. A half-wit and a sinner. Voldemort’s voice boomed out, tearing him from his wayward thoughts,

“Time’s up,”

Then those brown eyes narrowed,

“What do you look so guilty about?”

Harry stammered out,

“N-nothing.”

With one powerful stride, Voldemort closed the distance between them, and the rail jammed into Harry’s back. Voldemort leaned in, towering over him,

“Whatever heroic ideas you have in your head, get rid of them. If you attempt any kind of attack on me or my men, or you wish to fling yourself over the side in some misguided notion of noble sacrifice, we will hunt down that merchant ship and see your sister and her child suffer. Oh, how they will suffer. Do I make myself clear, or do you require specifics?”

Harry shook his head, desperate to back away farther from Voldemort’s mocking sneer. He was caught painfully with no retreat at hand, the man’s body an unmovable wall, his will impenetrable. Voldemort was right…to go overboard would be suicide, and Harry didn’t have a prayer of overpowering a single man on the ship, let alone fifty of them. He was trapped.

“Any other questions?”

The words flitted through his mind and somehow rasped right out of his mouth,

“Who did you steal this ship from?”

Harry snapped his jaw shut, blood rushing in his ears. Voldemort straightened up as if offended. He growled,

“This is my ship. I earned her fair and square in a wager. It was your mentor who tried to steal her from me.”

Harry voiced his puzzlement,

“I don’t understand. Why?”

Voldemort gritted out,

“Not that it bloody matters what you understand, but after years of toil, I finally had my own ship. I considered carrying merchant cargo, but I wanted to do more for my country despite…”

Harry waited a few moments, watching the way Voldemort’s jaw clenched,

“Despite what?”

Voldemort spat out,

“Nothing. I was bestowed my letter of marque, permitting me to raid enemy ships. I was a proud partner of the Crown, battling the Spanish grip. I followed the rules and shared my winnings. I was respectable. Legitimate.”

The question slipped from Harry’s tongue,

“Then how did you fall so far as to become this?”

Voldemort’s large hand clamped around Harry’s throat, metal rings digging in painfully, cutting off his air. He leaned low again.

“Keep a civil tongue in your head, boy, or I will cut it out and feed it to you. Yes?”

Harry nodded desperately, horror clawing at him, lungs already burning. He stamped his feet, wanting to kick and free himself somehow. Voldemort’s grip loosened, but didn’t release. At least it was enough that Harry could breathe again. Barely.

Face hard, Voldemort still leaned in close,

“That day at the Court of Admiralty, when I presented my Basilisk loaded with treasure, your mentor announced that the Spanish captain had claimed cruel treatment, in direct contravention to regulations. I knew it to be a lie since the man had stayed in my cabin, utterly unharmed. I saw to it that no prisoner was ever harmed on my ship.”

Harry scraped the words out,

“Perhaps the Spanish captain was the liar?”

Truthfully, it sounded exactly like something Albus would do. Anything to further his own selfish desires,

“Of course, the captain could not say, as he had suddenly died the night before in the court’s custody. But my letter of marque was invalidated, and in a heartbeat, I was declared a pirate. My ship and men would be seized as well.”

He tightened his fingers on Harry’s neck,

“Your mentor and his cronies damned me and my crew to the gallows without a second thought. They took the Basilisk for themselves, sending little of the treasure to England’s coffers from what I heard later. Your mentor is a greedy liar. You’re probably just like him.”

Harry struggled for air, his hands coming up to grip Voldemort’s wrist, skittering fear clawing. Blessedly, Voldemort loosened his fingers. The rail dug into Harry’s back, and he cursed his mentor.

Damn him and his insatiable greed.

Harry had heard stories of the New World’s rampant corruption, and a Spanish treasure ship would certainly have been a tempting prize. Once again, he loomed large over Harry’s life even in his absence.

Harry gazed up at Voldemort’s grim expression and the bitter twist of his full lips. Albus could wait…he must deal with the villain who currently clutched him in his talons, the scent of sweat and seawater filling Harry’s nose.

Voldemort continued,

“Your mentor and his conspirators underestimated my men…Mr. Snape and many of this crew. They overpowered the force sent to arrest them and rescued me from my cell. We won The _Death Eater_ and now we’re pirates.”

He tightened his hold on Harry’s throat,

“And I give no assurances on the well-being of prisoners.”

With that, he pushed Harry back below decks and toward his cabin, where a jittery crew member stood with a metal tool in hand,

“Lock’s fixed, Cap’n.”

He handed over the iron key. Harry found himself sprawled on his face as Voldemort shoved him inside, narrowly missing the edge of the desk. He pushed up to sitting, hating how he cowered, yet tempted to crawl under the desk as Voldemort towered over him. The thought of being choked again was unbearable.

The pirate sneered, then turned and stripped off his long coat, hanging it on a hook. His dark, open-necked shirt billowed slightly at the sleeves. As well as his sword and pistol, Harry glimpsed the handles of two daggers tucked into Voldemort’s belt, one of them Harry’s own. His head spun with the rush of shame. What a failure he was. He hadn’t even managed to scratch the fiend with his blade before it was snatched away as if from a naughty child. What would Mr. Black think?

That I’m a failure in everything, not only my studies.

He blinked as the door shut, the key scraped in the lock, and Voldemort was gone without another word. Thank the Lord for small mercies. The less he had to suffer the brute’s presence, the better.


	7. Chapter 7

Still on the floor, Harry surveyed his cell. Sunlight warmed the air through the square windowpanes across the stern. On the port side, bookcases were built into the hull, thick books and rolled nautical charts tucked away neatly. He didn’t bother going closer to see any of the titles.

To starboard, there were built-in drawers and a large chest on the floor from which Voldemort had plucked the blanket. Harry could hardly bear to touch it and kicked it into the corner.

He sat there and pulled his knees to his chest, thoughts tumbling through his mind willy-nilly. _Could_ he have done more with the dagger? Mr. Black’s face filled his mind, and a pang of longing chimed through Harry. His tutor had always seemed so capable, so strong and intelligent.

Harry closed his eyes and conjured Mr. Black’s image. Tall, well-built, darkly handsome man with fair skin, medium, lustrous black hair, which sometimes appeared light in the sun, striking grey eyes and an air of casual elegance. This vestige of aristocratic beauty. A memory played infront of his eyes,

_Mr. Black winked, _

_“It’s a dangerous world over in the colonies. On land and at sea.”_

_Harry gingerly examined the gleaming metal in his hand, turning the smooth wood handle between his fingers, _

_“You’re giving me this?” _

_His heart thumped almost painfully._

_“I know most tutors would bestow a book or some such thing, but I fear it would be rather wasted on you. Don’t you agree?”_

_He did indeed. Harry longed to throw his arms around him and press his lips to the strip of bare skin above Mr. Black’s cravat. Since he was a boy he’d dreamt of it, knowing his tutor was a good, decent man, not a sinner like Harry. Admiring him for it whilst despairing of it._

_After he shook Mr. Black’s hand like a gentleman, he watched him, heart in throat, as Mr. Black rode to the end of the drive, around the bend, and was gone forever._

Fighting a rush of tears, Harry opened his eyes. He was still sitting on the floor of the pirate king’s cabin. It was truly happening. He’d been kidnapped. It wasn’t some nightmare that would soak his nightshirt with sweat but leave him unscathed.

His tutor had tried to shield him from the world as best he could, but there was no preparation for this. Harry missed him desperately, aching for his reassuring presence, his kind, thoughtful answers and advice.

They hadn’t the money to buy Harry’s way into Cambridge or Oxford, and Mr. Black had warned Albus that he simply “did not possess the aptitude” for academics or law, his generous way of saying Harry was too stupid.

Even the church wasn’t an option, since reading was too important a requirement. Not that Harry had a whit of desire to be a clergyman. He’d considered the navy, but Albus had insisted Harry would marry Ginny first.

His studies had been a struggle for as long as he could remember. While Luna was well pleased to while away hour upon hour reading, Harry had always longed to be outside…to run and climb and swim. To _move_.

Words on a page didn’t unfold and flow for him the way they seemed to for others. When Luna read aloud to him, she didn’t stumble or become confused. The words streamed out like water, with meaning and inflection. Harry understood everything he heard, but when ink was put to paper, words confounded him.

When they were children, she’d helped him memorize words, explaining what they meant and teaching him better than any tutor, even dear Mr. Black. She’d be a wonderful mother, patient and kind, with a mischievous streak he hoped would remain all her days.

Once, as a lad, Harry had confessed to his tutor that he envied the servants and their physical tasks. Mr. Black had given him an uncharacteristically stern look and said, 

_“Spoken like a boy of privilege who will never serve.”_

He was right, and shame still pricked Harry that he was so discontent with his lot in life when many others had it very much the worse. He just wished he didn’t feel so…_wrong_. In so many ways.

Mr. Black had then softened and ruefully said the stork had delivered him to the wrong house before drilling him on his pathetic Latin conjugation again, a useless endeavour if ever there was one.

He laughed humourlessly to himself now. _The stork_. By the time Mr. Black had determined Harry old enough to be informed of the true manner of how babes were born, Luna had already told him in great detail. He still wasn’t sure how she’d learned about that.

_Luna._ Was she all right? He was powerless to comfort her, and despair welled up again, along with a wave of loneliness that would have laid him low if he hadn’t already been huddled on the floor. He closed his eyes again, memories filling his mind.

When he’d questioned the stork theory, Luna had told him everything in great detail.

While his friends from neighbouring estates fantasized about lifting a lady’s skirts or touching her creamy, delicate breasts, Harry had remained unmoved by women’s charms. Not only was he feeble-minded, he was a deviant to boot.

He cringed at the thought of dooming an unfortunate girl to a life with not only a dunce who could barely read two words before stumbling, but a sinner with unnatural defects. He knew he should strive to overcome his nature, but any attempts had left him despairing of the hopelessness.

Perhaps it would be better for poor Ginny Weasley and him alike if the scurrilous pirates were his doom. His sinful desires to rut with men, to be consumed by them, had only grown stronger the more he tried to quell them. There had been several times when he’d desperately wanted to confide in Luna, but he had feared her rejection too much.

Harry blinked at the cabin. He’d opened his eyes at some point, and he was still there. If only he could wake on the _Phoenix_ with Luna’s steady breathing filling the cabin. His throat tightened painfully. God, would he ever see her again?

He couldn’t just sit there. He had to try and do something. Anything!


	8. Chapter 8

With one eye on the door, Harry tiptoed, the floor creaking. He wagered the pirate wouldn’t be back for some time. He stopped to unbuckle his shoes and rolled off his woollen stockings, which he tossed into the corner where he’d been told to stay. He spread his toes on the worn planks in relief.

Peeking in drawers, he found dark clothing—trousers and shirts. Some pale linen underthings. No stockings or waistcoats, for what use would a pirate have for those? Harry couldn’t deny a moment of jealousy at the freedom. He unbuttoned his own hated waistcoat and tossed it in the corner as well.

He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. Did he imagine he would stumble upon a weapon and then…what? Best not only the pirate captain, but the entire crew? Still, he searched.

The chest only held more linens and odds and ends. The dark desk dominated much of the cabin, facing the door, which was tucked off to the side near the port hull. The bed was built into the wall adjacent to the door.

Red velvet drapes were tied back with yellow tassels on either side of the bed, the colours faded from the sun. Judging by the dust clinging to the velvet, the drapes hadn’t been closed or shaken out in some time.

The bed linens were wrinkled, though surprisingly white. Harry glared at his scratchy, musty blanket. Listening for footsteps in the corridor, he examined the wide, dark-wood desk. It had a tinge of red in the grain and was well constructed, wood extending on the front and sides all the way to the floor, making it a singularly solid piece of furniture.

The carved chair was of an almost-black wood. The high back was carved in the form of a snake. The chair certainly made a statement. The seat cushion was a dark green, well-used. The top of the desk was neat. A nautical chart had rolled in on itself, and the thick captain’s log sat closed, ink and quill nearby. A curling silver candelabra with melted-down candles sat off to the side, a few drops of wax having dripped onto the desk and dried there.

There was no guest chair on the other side of the desk, perhaps indicating that the pirate didn’t entertain much consultation. The desk of course contained drawers. Bottles of rum and port were stashed in a lower one.

As Harry edged out the top drawer, he heard a thud and voices outside the door. Heart in his throat, fresh panic popping in his veins, he dove for the corner, curling against the wall atop the horrible blanket, eyes locked on the door, waiting for the key to scrape in the lock.

Yet it didn’t, and as minutes passed, no one entered. The Death Eater sailed on, hull creaking, rocking gently as it cut through the waves. Would the merchant ship reach Godric’s Hollow when its captain had predicted? And would his mentor care enough to attempt to save Harry?

Would the last days of his life be spent locked away in this room, either alone or with a monster for company? He wasn’t sure which was worse as he lifted his fingers to his tender throat, which throbbed after Voldemort’s rough treatment.

He imagined Luna’s slender hand tucked into the crook of his arm as they had strolled the decks of the Phoenix in the afternoon. Could hear the lilt of her sunny voice reading him story after story.

Useless tears pricking his eyes, he bowed his head and prayed she and her baby were unharmed on their journey. If only their mentor hadn’t set them all on this course. Harry pushed away his fear in favor of resentment.

Albus had spent a ridiculous sum importing primroses and other flowers from England to the island. According to Luna’s husband, he’d been furious when they hadn’t taken root, the tropical plants running roughshod over them, choking them with flowering vines and bright bursts of blooms.

The island had previously been uninhabited, and Harry secretly hoped it would remain untamed for years to come. Yet he knew no matter how unyielding the vegetation, if England was determined to overrun it, she would, without concern as to how many suffered and were enslaved in the process.

Some years ago, during one of Albus’s visits home, Harry had argued with him at breakfast about paying fair wages for labour in the colonies. If the law said a person could not be a slave in England, how was it right in the colonies?

He could still envision his mentor’s red-faced fury at these “radical” ideas, spittle flying from his lips as he’d demanded to know if Harry had learned them from his tutor.

Protecting Mr. Black Harry said he’d seen a Quaker pamphlet on a trip to London,

“And how did you read it, you simpleton?”

Harry had insisted a neighbour boy relayed it to him. Truthfully, there had been a Quaker publication, but Mr. Black had read it to him.

Perhaps Harry could argue for fairness on Godric’s Hollow. Not that he would be much good at it with his dim wits. Still, he would try…if he survived. He curled in the corner of his prison, where he’d remain for the next, what? Four weeks, the devil had said. And if Albus refused to pay…

No, Harry couldn’t dwell on it. All he could do was hope this wouldn’t be his bloody end. He touched his tender throat again, remembering the crush of Voldemort’s powerful hand. He had to withstand his captivity, and he’d drive himself utterly mad if he didn’t push aside his fear.

Harry was powerless over everything but his own mind, and if he could just keep himself occupied, he’d survive this. He glanced around his prison, heart sinking. Of course, keeping occupied was easier said than done when he couldn’t move.

Even after being kidnapped by pirates, restless boredom would apparently be his companion once more. The captain’s cabin was surely the largest on the sloop, but trapped inside it, Harry would go mad in a matter of days.


	9. Chapter 9

The boatswain’s whistle for all hands on deck cut through the air, and the men gathered. Standing at the helm, Snape at his side, Voldemort surveyed them silently, waiting for the shuffling and jostling to cease. Waiting until he had their undivided attention.

He still carried all his weapons, including the dagger confiscated from the prisoner. His lower back protested at the extra weight on his belt, and he cursed himself for not locking it all away safely before returning up top. He made sure his voice carried across the deck,

“By now, you are all aware of the unexpected treasure we’ve captured. My brothers, this windfall will reap us a reward greater than we could have dreamed when we spotted that merchant ship. Our new mission is to ransom Albus Dumbledore’s heir.”

A voice called.

“For ’ow much?”

He replied,

“One hundred thousand pounds.”

The men looked at each other, murmuring and smiling, visions of their share of the bounty dancing in their heads. Yet one, Avery, asked timidly,

“Shouldn’t we have taken a vote?”

Voldemort sighed internally. Yes, they should have, and he hadn’t even paused to consider it, his vision narrowed on the dual prize of revenge against Dumbledore and the possibility of a peaceful retirement from the sea. But he also wanted to leave the crew in good stead, with enough money that they could live well unless they squandered it, which some surely would. That was out of his hands. He nodded.

“Yes. My brothers. I was swept up in my excitement over our future riches. By all means, of course we will vote. Your choices are these: Continue to sail without a plan, hoping we stumble upon a prize. Perhaps some tobacco or sugar we can trade in Hogsmeade for enough coin to spend a few days drinking and whoring before we set out to do it all again. And again. And again.”

He waited, letting that option sink in,

“Or, we ransom lying, cheating Albus Dumbledore’s only heir for a hundred thousand pounds.”

Or however much Dumbledore could raise, but the men didn’t need to know that.

Voldemort had set the bar high for the men’s sake as well, and hopefully the ransom would come close so they could share a generous bounty. More than they could ever expect to win unless they miraculously stumbled upon a ship with treasure in its hold.

“For the next month, we relax. We do not fight over scraps with other ships flying the black. We do not risk death battling said ships. We stay out of the trading channels. Then we simply deliver this one piece of cargo and become richer than we thought possible with one haul.”

He let that sink in as well. Then,

“Mr. Snape, the vote, if you please?”

Doing an admirable job of not smirking, Snape cleared his throat,

“We all know the captain is a man of his word. While most privateer captains take up to fourteen shares of a prize, The Dark Lord only ever claimed two, the same he does now. A fair share for the work he does guiding us. Protecting us. Mr. Nott, you made how much doing backbreaking work at a rich man’s estate in Boston?”

Nott answered,

“Twelve stinking pound a year.”

Snape gazed over the men,

“Twelve pounds. A year. There are forty-six of us on this ship. The Dark Lord will get two shares; one and a half for me. Part will go into the fund for the injured, and so on. But when all is said and done, it will be two thousand pounds for each of you. I know we all dream of striking Spanish gold in the next ship on the horizon. While this may not be millions, it is not a prize to be underestimated. All in favor?”

Hands went up with a raucous cheer. Voldemort smirked,

“That’s the spirit of The Death Eater!”

He waited a few moments before raising his hands and quieting the men,

“The boy will remain in my cabin. Untouched. Unharmed. Some of you will tend to him when needed—food and water if I am otherwise engaged. Do not speak to him or allow him to ensnare you. Some of you will remember his mentor or have heard the tales of his treachery. Albus Dumbledore is a snake in the grass, and his heir is surely just as slippery and deceitful.”

The men nodded, murmuring in agreement.

“Don’t be taken in by his innocent countenance. He is a spoiled, lazy brat who has had everything handed to him without a minute’s work, without a moment’s hardship.”

More agreement. Then,

“What ’appens if the old man don’t pay?”

Voldemort identified the man speaking. It was the sailor who had just joined them from the Phoenix. Already speaking so boldly could signal trouble, but Voldemort would give him the benefit of the doubt. Voldemort knew how miserable those merchant ships could be, just like the navy…working oneself to the bone for next to nothing. Voldemort asked,

“Ah, our new brother. Your name?”

“Fletcher.”

He glanced around as if daring anyone to contradict him. He spoke,

“A valid question. I’m confident Dumbledore will pay the ransom.”

Another man spoke up,

“I thought Godric’s Hollow was failing. Ain’t supposed to be any money there, not enough food, more and more people pulling up stakes and going to the Carolinas or Jamaica. Thought that was why we’ve never bothered with the place.”

This was getting irritating,

“Absolutely true. But Dumbledore is a venal, greedy man. We have heard as well that he lives in a grand house on the colony; that he thrives while his people struggle. He grasps for power, and what message would it send to the rest of the colonies if he allowed pirates to murder his only heir? If he displayed such weakness, such vulnerability?”

The men murmured, nodding to each other. Voldemort continued,

“He cannot permit it. His pride will not. If he does not possess the funds, he will acquire them one way or another, or his reputation would suffer a devastating blow. No matter the truth, he cannot appear weak. Of that I am certain. I am also certain we will have a battle on our hands once we make the exchange.”

Voldemort grinned wolfishly,

“But the Death Eater never runs from a fight when our prize is so valuable. Who is with me?”

The men cheered, raising their fists. One shouted,

“Revenge’ll be bloody sweet!”

Voldemort couldn’t agree more,

“Now we sail for Hogsmeade to trade the rest of the cargo.”

More cheers, and Voldemort didn’t tell them the stop in Hogsmeade would be far, far briefer than they’d like. It was too great a risk to anchor there for long. If word got out of their ransom, they’d be fighting off other pirates. No, better to keep moving, staying out of the shipping channels, sailing close enough to Godric’s Hollow, but not too close.

The men went back to work, excitement fuelling their steps, and Voldemort turned to survey the sea behind them, the ship’s wake fanning out. Snape rejoined him after a time and they stood in companionable silence. Finally, Snape asked,

“Will the boy be any trouble?”

Voldemort shook his head dismissively,

“He’s a nothing little man. Snivelling coward like his mentor.”

To be fair, the boy had seemed willing to do anything to protect his sister, but that was a low bar in assessing a man’s worth,

“He won’t be a problem.”

Snape whistled softly,

“Just think if we can pull this off.”

Voldemort spread his hands wide over the railing, watching sunlight gleam on the waves, unfamiliar hopefulness flowing through him,

“Perhaps it will be my final operation.”

Snape stared at him with brow furrowed,

“Pardon?”

Voldemort kept his gaze on the sea,

“With this ransom, I would leave you and the men in good stead. You could be captain when I’m gone.”

Snape snorted,

“I’m a damn good quartermaster because I know how to keep the men happy enough to stay in line. Captains must plan battles and the like, be mysterious and forbidding. Not my area of expertise. Besides, you won’t be going anywhere.”

His stomach twisted,

“I won’t?”

Snape leaned against the railing,

“I’ve seen this before. This restlessness. It’ll pass. You’d never be able to leave when it comes down to it. I mean, what the bloody hell would you do with yourself?”

He shrugged, 

“Fish. Farm a little. No more fighting.”

Snape smirked,

“You’d be bored in a day! The grass may seem greener and all that, but can you really fathom such a life?”

He clapped Voldemort’s shoulder, smile fading. A sickening sensation washed through Voldemort, his limbs weighted with it, a cannonball in his gut. He croaked,

“Aye.”

Snape sighed and shouted behind him,

“Lestrange, are you fucking deaf? What did I just tell you this morning?”

Voldemort smiled obligingly as Snape went about his business. Gazing out into the vast nothing, Voldemort still couldn’t help but imagine what could lie beyond.

A little house, a hearth and warm tea in the mornings, an honest day’s work ahead of him. A full night’s sleep in a proper bed, ground that wasn’t forever shifting beneath him. Perhaps even a man to warm that bed, to live by his side in comfort.

He laughed harshly to himself. Nonsense indeed. Men who lived by the sword didn’t enjoy peaceful retirements. He didn’t deserve it, and regardless, Snape was surely right…it wouldn’t suit him in the least.

A life at sea was what he’d craved as long as he could remember, so why would he want to give it up? Especially now that he was a pirate captain with more power than he’d ever imagined.

Yet Voldemort couldn’t quite banish the fantasy completely, tucking it away in the corner of his mind since he was apparently intent on tormenting himself despite his better judgment.


	10. Chapter 10

He took the wheel for a time. The day passed slowly, and several times he had to stop himself from returning to his cabin to see how his prisoner fared. The longer he left the boy alone, the sooner he would be cowed completely. Voldemort ate his evening meal with the men of the second dog watch as the sun went down.

The young man stationed outside Voldemort’s cabin snapped to attention as he approached. Voldemort asked,

“Did he try to bargain with you?”

The man replied timidly,

“No, sir. Barely looked up from the floor.”

Voldemort held out his hand for the key,

“Very good. Be sure to keep your guard up around him in the days to come. Dismissed.”

Following his own advice, Voldemort turned the key swiftly and entered his cabin braced for attack. None came. Arms around knees, the boy was huddled in his corner, where the starboard side of the hull met the stern. Voldemort could just glimpse his head over the desk.

Voldemort swaggered around as if he didn’t have a care in the world, remaining alert, hand resting casually on his sword hilt. The boy kept his gaze on his feet, which were now bare. At least he had the good sense to do away with shoes and stockings.

After a day of full sunshine, Voldemort longed to tug off his stifling boots. But not yet. He surveyed the bowl of food on the floor, which appeared untouched. So bloody much for good sense.

“Eat.”

No reply.

Voldemort growled,

“Have you gone deaf?”

The boy mumbled something, and Voldemort demanded,

“Look at me.”

The boy’s head snapped up,

“I said I’m not hungry!”

He spoke in a low, deadly voice,

“Is that so? And what makes you think I give a damn about whether or not you’re hungry? You will eat when I tell you to. Do I have to hold your nose and shove that stew down your throat?”

The boy was lying…of course he was hungry. He’d drained most of his cup of water, at least. But this brainless rebellion had to be crushed. Voldemort stepped closer, spreading his legs slightly, looming over his prisoner,

“Do I have to chain you naked to the bed after all?”

Adam’s apple bobbing, the boy’s gaze darted to the bulge of Voldemort’s cock in his trousers, his breath catching. Was it simply fear, or something else as well?

A spark in the air like flint on stone tightened Voldemort’s bollocks. Hmm. Could it be that the boy just might enjoy being ravished? But no, the boy’s lip curled with disgust,

“You’re repellent. A filthy animal.”

He leaned down and growled,

“Keep fighting me, and you’ll find out just how filthy I am.”

The boy shuddered,

“You know Albus won’t pay if you hurt me, you monster.”

Voldemort took his time, looking him over as if he were a piece of meat. He lifted his lips in a leering smile,

“There are plenty of things I can do to you that won’t leave a mark.”

The boy gazed up at him defiantly,

“You blame my mentor for branding you a pirate, but clearly your heart was already black.”

Voldemort lowered his voice another octave,

“I’ll make you like it. Just imagine how much you’ll hate yourself after that.”

The boy had no response but to reach for his bowl and shove a spoonful of stew into his mouth. He chewed angrily, but Voldemort let him have his impotent rage.

The boy was one of English society’s puppets, so of course he was horrified by the thought of men rutting with men. He lived a buttoned-up, pathetic little life of obedience to his mentor. This excursion on a pirate ship would probably be the one burst of excitement in his entire existence.

Might as well give him a show, then.

Slowly, carelessly, Voldemort strode around the cabin, disrobing bit by bit. He took off his belt and tucked away his weapons, including the boy’s dagger, in a chest and locked it.

He considered commanding the boy to pull off his boots. Voldemort would sit on the side of the bed with his trousers unlaced and shirt off, legs spread as far as he could, making his captive kneel.

The thought coiled desire in his belly, a low, hot pulse. Must have been the lingering thrill of the hunt and capture that stirred him. Tormenting Dumbledore’s heir was one thing, but Voldemort had to keep his lust in check. It wasn’t typically a problem.

Yet there was something intoxicating about the boy and his little acts of defiance. Many men would have pissed themselves and wept. Voldemort had seen it enough over the years.

Still, he’d already given the boy too much time. Although it was fun to toy with him…

Voldemort stripped off his shirt and unlaced his trousers, peeling them and his drawers down his legs although he still wore his boots. He was quite sure he had the boy’s attention as he bent over bare-arsed and pulled his feet free, resisting the urge to sigh in relief as he stretched his toes and kicked his trousers away.

Naked, he walked slowly around his desk, passing within a few feet of the prisoner, the boy’s gaze surely following, hot on his skin. Voldemort opened the top drawer and pulled off his rings one by one, hiding his vexation when one of them caught stubbornly on his knuckle.

He liked the gold earring—he forgot about it most of the time and was occasionally surprised by it in the hand mirror when he groomed himself in the morning. But the rings he found cumbersome, and they only came out when Lord Voldemort was in his full regalia.

After dousing the lamp, Voldemort stretched out on his mattress naked, He commanded,

“Behave. Or remember how your sister will suffer. Yes?”

The reply came, brimming with resentment.

“Yes.”

Despite his resolution to ignore his prisoner, Voldemort smiled to himself.


	11. Chapter 11

_“I’ll make you like it. Just imagine how much you’ll hate yourself after that.”_

Even with the break of day, the words still echoed in Harry’s head as if hissed by the devil himself. There was no need to imagine a thin…he despised his weakness in not being able to rid himself of traitorous desires.

He’d pretended to be asleep when Voldemort roused in the darkness. There had been a few moments of silence when he’d been sure he was being watched, and he could understand why a deer froze in place under a predator’s scrutiny. Even after the key had scraped in the lock and he was sure he was alone, Harry had stayed curled under the horrible blanket, sleeping fitfully again.

Now the sun was in the sky, and he wasn’t sure what time it was. There had been no delivery of food and water, but perhaps that would only be once a day. He would have to ration his water or risk sipping from Voldemort’s bottles of alcohol, a dangerous proposition if he was discovered. Harry had never been much for drink, but he was tempted to dull his senses.

Good Lord, it had only been a day. He’d never survive a month without going mad. And perhaps he wouldn’t survive at all. If his mentor didn’t pay…He wanted to scream. There was no way of foreseeing the future, so he must focus on the present and force away the worry lest he go mad.

He kicked off the blanket, sweating, his breeches straining with a morning erection. A turgid state that only grew more pronounced as images of the pirate captain stripping off his clothes ran riot through Harry’s head.

I can’t even control my feeble mind.

He’d tried not to look. He truly had. Yet he’d glimpsed the pale, muscular flesh, the dark ink of a tattoo painting the pirate’s sternum depicting…what else? A skull with a snake protruding from its mouth.

The villain had dropped his drawers and trousers to his ankles, then bent to remove his boots. Harry wondered anew how the long scars had come to be over the pirate’s buttocks, fingers of faded pink that were undoubtedly blood red when inflicted. He couldn’t imagine Voldemort bending to anyone’s will; being overpowered, subjugated.

Yet clearly, he had, since there was little doubt the scars came from a punishment. Curious. How had he suffered those scars and when? Harry thought men who were lashed took it on their backs, not lower.

That line of reasoning of course made him think of lower, and the pirate’s cock and balls hanging thick between his legs.

_“I’ll make you like it.”_

The memory of Voldemort’s growl, his accent sent flames of desire licking through Harry. He spoke with the profanity of the sea, yet also like a learned man. Harry wondered how he had come to be not merely a pirate when branded it, but the formidable Lord Voldemort. Tall, fearsome and bold, wholly male in the primal way of a beast of the jungle.

He groaned, giving in and unfastening his breeches, breath hitching as he wrapped his palm around his shaft. He admitted the truth that the devil wouldn’t have to put in much effort at all to make him like it. He jerked himself, attempting without success to focus solely on the physical sensation.

Does he really sleep with other men? Would he make me suck his massive prick? Make me bend over and take it?

Moaning, Harry spread his knees, feet flat on the wooden planks. He’d used his own fingers in the past, but what would it be like to have another man’s cock inside him? Not just any man’s…Voldemort’s? It would be huge as it split him open…

When Mr. Black had taught him to wrestle so he could turn the tables on his opponents, it had somehow still been a gentlemanly pursuit. Harry had loved the press of their bodies and feverishly dreamed of more while pleasuring himself in the privacy of his chambers.

Harry shouldn’t want that. He shouldn’t fantasize of someone like Voldemort. He should want a good, kind man who would be gentle. Not a monster. Yet as he touched himself, he reached up with his left hand, fingers skimming the sore bruises Voldemort had left on his throat. He remembered the long slender fingers choking him, as if it could have snapped his neck like a twig, and he moaned again.

He skimmed his fingers over his face, which stubbornly refused to grow much hair. Other hand flying on his cock, he thought of the beard around Voldemort’s mouth and how rough it would feel against his skin, in complete opposition to ladies’ creamy, tender cheeks.

Images ran rampant of Voldemort bending him over the rail of the ship, mounting him, mastering him…

Harry cupped his hand over the end of his prick as he came, thudding his head back on the floor as he shuddered with each pulse, the hot pleasure scorching him, leaving him raw. Leaving him empty and bitterly ashamed.

Gut churning, he searched for something on which to wipe his seed. Then he was caught in a nightmare as heavy footsteps approached and the key turned in the door.

Desperately wiping his hand on the cursed blanket, Harry barely got his breeches fastened and his shirt tugged down, springing to his feet as the door opened.

And of course, it wasn’t some crew member, but the devil himself.


	12. Chapter 12

Desperately wiping his hand on the cursed blanket, Harry barely got his breeches fastened and his shirt tugged down, springing to his feet as the door opened.

And of course, it wasn’t some crew member, but the devil himself. Voldemort froze in the entryway, eyes narrowing. He kicked the door shut,

“What the hell are you up to?”

Harry backed into the corner,

“N…nothing.”

Voldemort’s fierce gaze swept around the cabin, then returned to Harry,

“The hell you say.”

He stormed over,

“What have you got there?”

Too late, Harry realized he’d instinctively thrust his sticky hand behind his back when Voldemort entered the cabin. Now Voldemort wrenched his arm out, Harry winced through the bolt of pain. He hadn’t been able to wipe all the evidence away, and he cringed.

With a derisive laugh, Voldemort peered down at Harry’s sticky fingers, his grasp cruel,

“Thought you’d _spend_ your time wisely, hmm?”

Harry straightened his shoulders and lifted his head, snatching back his hand, surprised when Voldemort released it,

“It’s none of you concern! I… Well, why shouldn’t I?”

Voldemort smirked lecherously,

“Why indeed? Dreaming of bedding your pretty little betrothed?”

Harry sputtered,

“What? Who?”

A dark eyebrow arched,

“Your sister said you were to be married.”

Harry realized who Voldemort was talking about, cleared his throat and lifted his chin

“Oh. Yes. Don’t you dare speak of her.”

Voldemort crowded him against the wall, all heat and solidness, and a sconce dug into Harry’s neck.

“You dare tell me what to do? No. Not in my cabin. Not on my ship. Not ever. Understood?”

He managed a nod, cursing how his flushed body tightened again at Voldemort’s proximity. Then Voldemort turned and took a seat at the desk. He unrolled a nautical chart and opened his log, picking up the quill and dipping it in ink. For minutes, the quill scratched over paper, and Harry stood against the wall, unsure what to do.

Finally, he sank back to the floor, and Voldemort didn’t blink, ignoring him completely. When a man came with water and rations for Harry, Voldemort never so much as glanced up.

Harry determined he would wait until Voldemort left again before eating. He hugged his knees to his chest and kept his eyes on the floorboards. Waiting… and waiting…and waiting.

He broke down and had a sip of the tepid water, watching Voldemort from the corner of his eye. Nothing. It was as if he wasn’t even there, and somehow that made Harry feel lower and more despairing than he had with Voldemort’s hand around his neck.

Why should he want the attention of the villain who might kill him? No, of course he didn’t.

After a time, the quartermaster arrived. He stopped short when he spotted Harry, as if he’d forgotten they’d taken a prisoner. Voldemort asked him a question and continued to ignore Harry’s presence.

Mr. Snape eventually did too as he spoke of navigational concerns and dark clouds in the distance. Yet every so often, his eyes darted back to Harry and he shifted from foot to foot where he leaned on the front of the desk, Voldemort still sitting behind it.

When Snape left and Voldemort went back to writing in his log as if he were alone, Harry’s mind wandered, settling on the issue of his future wife. He knew the duties of a husband and would do what he must. Perhaps he and Ginny could be dear friends, and having children to dote on wouldn’t be unpleasant, not at all. He’d always liked little ones well enough.

_“Dreaming of bedding your pretty little betrothed?”_

He didn’t even know what Ginny looked like. She was nothing more than a notion, a vague idea of full skirts and flowery perfume, of a lady. Not that it mattered…no matter how fair her face, it wouldn’t change his unnatural inclinations. Squeezing his sticky hand, he shuddered, shame pooling in his belly.

So many times, he’d wanted to ask Mr. Black what made some men abominations, but had never dared. Instinct had told him he’d never be able to ask without giving himself away. Although Mr. Black had never shown any indication, sometimes Harry had wondered if he suspected the truth. But suspecting and _knowing_ were two quite different things.

Why had he been born thus? Was he being punished for being the way he was…for feeling what he felt…for his unnatural desire for men?

Harry realized Voldemort’s quill had gone quiet. In the silence he dared a peek, watching as Voldemort blew on his freshly inked log so it wouldn’t smear. Did the pirate have a wife somewhere? A mistress? Or perhaps he simply visited the whorehouses Harry was told sprouted like weeds in the new world.

_“I’ll make you like it.”_

He couldn’t banish the words from his head, and he mulled over the implications again. Could it really be that the pirate king shared Harry’s inclinations?

Of course, men at sea found release where they must, at least according to Harry’s neighbours, who allegedly had it on good authority. They’d all shuddered at the thought of it, while Harry had bit his tongue so hard he drew blood in an effort not to demand more details.

Voldemort would probably only take pleasure in tormenting Harry; controlling him…punishing him. Harry had never to his knowledge met another man who truly shared his sin, who would choose a man over a woman rather than simply indulging in unnatural couplings due to circumstance. Another who craved not only a man’s touch, but kisses and smiles as well, companionship such as a wife would bring.

Not that it was the kind of thing spoken about at dinners and garden parties.

Apparently reading over his words, Voldemort absently rolled up the flowing sleeves on his black shirt, cuffing them at the elbow. His pale skin was scattered with dark hair. Yet without the flaring black coat, Harry noticed Voldemort wasn’t quite as intimidating as he’d first thought. Still a good head taller than him, but not quite as fearsome as he’d seemed.

Another scar slashed across the back of Voldemort’s right hand, which rested by the logbook, his left dipping the delicate quill into the pot of ink with precision. Writing with one’s left hand was reputedly the mark of the devil, so Harry supposed he shouldn’t be surprised.

It was madness to think he was really there. On a pirate ship. That he wouldn’t wake up swaying in the awful hammock, pretending to still sleep while Luna snored. Spending another long, boring day on the merchant ship, where he couldn’t run or swim or climb.

“Eat.”

Voldemort didn’t look at him, eyes still on the page.

“I’m…”

Harry stopped the lie. He was hungry. There was no sense in denying it or weakening himself by refusing his rations. He ate a spoonful of sloppy fish stew as bells tolled, choking down too-soft potatoes and then biting painfully into a thin, rock-hard biscuit as Voldemort left the cabin, turning the key in his wake.

Harry thought of Godric’s Hollow, Albus and a proper young lady named Ginny, a new life waiting on a new colony. A new life that would ensnare him even more thoroughly than he already was. Then he laughed out loud as he thought that being a monster’s captive on a pirate ship and ending his life here was perhaps preferable.

Madness indeed.


	13. Chapter 13

“Will I be permitted to cleanse myself at any point in the next month?”

Voldemort didn’t look up from the chart he was examining,

“Yes, let me ring for the servants. We’ll have the tub filled with perfectly heated water in no time. Scented with lavender…or would you prefer jasmine?”

The boy huffed from the corner,

“It’s been a week down here.”

His voice adopted a hopeful lilt,

“Perhaps I could take a swim if we’re dropping anchor close to shore? For a few minutes? That’s all I ask. It isn’t much.”

Voldemort tutted with false sympathy,

“Truly I was born to be an example of misfortune, and a target at which the arrows of adversary are aimed.”

He glanced at the boy, who regarded him blankly,

“Surely you’ve read _Don Quixote_.”

The boy insisted, too quickly, looking away, cheeks flushing,

“Of course!”

_Odd._

“While I know you believe you have suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, I assure you it could be worse. Much worse.”

The boy crossed his arms over his chest and spoke,

“I have been kidnapped by pirates. If that is not outrageous fortune, I don’t know what is.”

He had a point, and Voldemort controlled a huff that threatened to become laughter,

“Your lot could be far worse than the desire for a bath and apparent boredom even though I’ve offered you dozens of books to pass your time. Of course, you could always amuse yourself in other, more _physical_ ways.”

He didn’t have to look over to know the boy was blushing furiously. The taunt had the intended effect, and there was silence as minutes went by. The unintended consequence was that images of the boy pleasuring himself intruded into Voldemort’s mind…bow lips parted with soft cries, cock straining, losing himself to a few minutes of abandon, of freedom.

The boy had a restless spirit Voldemort hadn’t expected in the least from Albus Dumbledore’s heir. Although he was whining for a bath, Voldemort had a feeling it was more about getting back up on deck with freedom to move. He was a coiled spring, despairing at his containment, fidgeting endlessly. Voldemort had expected a much more indolent creature.

Sure enough, the boy said,

“If I could only go on deck the next time it rains. How I miss the rain. I used to go out exploring in it for hours. But even just for a few minutes…”

He spoke without looking up,

“Whatever ploy you have concocted, abandon it.”

The boy spoke indignantly,

“It’s no ploy! It’s been cloudy for days, and it has to rain soon. I only want to breathe some fresh air and be cleansed.”

The stern windows in Voldemort’s cabin were closed to the chilled wind, and if the brat couldn’t be bothered to open them from time to time, to hell with him. Clearly, he was lazy after all,

“No.”

The boy reasoned,

“If I’m so useless, why don’t you let me up there? What could I possibly do to a ship full of pirates?”

He sneered,

“Aside from get in the bloody way?”

The boy protested,

“I said I’d help. I’m sure I could learn.”

Voldemort laughed sharply,

“You probably don’t even know how to tie a simple hitch in the line.”

He repeated,

“I could learn. I bet I can.”

Voldemort’s simmering annoyance flared,

“A bet? All right, have it your way. Let’s put you to the test. You’ll have one demonstration, and one chance to tie it yourself.”

The boy nodded, leaping to his feet eagerly,

“If I win, I get to spend the days up on deck. I won’t try to escape or harm anyone.”

He regarded the boy,

“As if you could. And no. If you win… If you win, you’ll be permitted a bucket of water and sliver of soap.”

Lips pressed together, the boy nodded,

“Deal.”

He bounced on his toes,

“Let’s go.”

Voldemort went back to the chart, picking up his divider, the cool brass warming in his hand as he measured the shoreline,

“We’ll go when I say we do.”

As he continued working, the boy shifted back and forth, then paced across the cabin. Minutes ticked by, and Voldemort could have stopped, but he walked to the bookcase and pulled out another chart before settling back behind his desk, enjoying the increasingly agitated nature of the boy’s steps.

Finally, Voldemort noted,

“I’m sure you’re used to having everything you want with the snap of your fingers. Sadly, you’ll find only disappointment aboard this ship.”

The boy laughed bitterly,

“I’ve never had anything I’ve truly wanted. I never shall.”

He mocked,

“Oh, and what poor, thwarted desires have you suffered? Pray tell.”

The boy snapped his mouth shut, and Voldemort added,

“If you’d like to learn of true hardship, we liberated a slaver ship last spring. Some of the men chose to stay with us. I’m sure they’d have much to say on the subject.”

Face flushing, his shoulders slumped,

“Yes. I’m sure they would. You’re right.”

Taken aback by the capitulation, Voldemort blinked at the boy for a few moments. Then he tossed down the divider and rounded his desk,

“All right, let’s put you to the test.”

He grabbed the boy’s arm and shoved him out of the cabin and up the ladder to the main deck.

The crew looked askance, and Snape approached, asking,

“What’s this about?”

Voldemort pushed the boy to his knees,

“I’ve made a little bet with our prisoner. He thinks he can bend the line as well as any man aboard.”

The crew laughed uproariously, and he noticed that the boy’s shoulders were tight with tension where Voldemort held him fast. He could imagine how red his cheeks were,

“What do you say? Shall we let these delicate hands prove their mettle in return for a bucket of water?”


	14. Chapter 14

Voldemort pushed the boy to his knees,

“I’ve made a little bet with our prisoner. He thinks he can bend the line as well as any man aboard.”

The crew laughed uproariously, and the boy’s shoulders tensed with tension where Voldemort held him fast. He could imagine how red his cheeks were,

“What do you say? Shall we let these delicate hands prove their mettle in return for a bucket of water?”

Amid the cheers and laughter, a voice called,

“Thought wagering weren’t allowed on ship.”

It was Fletcher. He’d been of service when they’d boarded the merchant ship, and he wasn’t wrong now, but as some of the men grumbled, Voldemort wished Fletcher would shut his big mouth before Voldemort was forced to shut it for him.

Snape answered tersely,

“This is true. But seeing as we’re killing time waiting for our prize, perhaps we can make an exception this once.”

He glanced at Voldemort,

“Provided the men can make their own side wagers.”

Snape always knew how to keep the peace amongst the men, which made him an excellent quartermaster.

“Of course. Just this once.”

The brat would fail in no time, so the wagers wouldn’t spin out of control. Voldemort called,

“All right, let’s start with a simple half hitch. Nott, will you demonstrate? Then the boy gets one chance.”

While the men murmured amongst themselves, placing bets, the boy looked up over his shoulder,

“And how many knots do I have to master before I win?”

Voldemort gave him a wolfish grin,

“As many as I say.”

He knocked the boy in the back with a sharp tap of his knee,

“All right then, prove us wrong. Bend the line.”

And then…_he did_.

Each knot and hitch Nott demonstrated, the boy mastered in one go. Figure eight, reef, even sheepshank. Voldemort came around and watched the concentration on the boy’s face, pink tongue sometimes darting out between his lips, gaze focused in on Nott’s hands, ignoring the growing murmur of the crew, who called out suggestions to Nott to stump the prisoner.

Somehow none did. The coarse rope reddened the boy’s fingers and palms, but he didn’t hesitate as he mimicked Nott’s movements, watching keenly, sweat gathering on his brow even in the day’s chill.

Despite himself, admiration began to grow in Voldemort. The boy was unbowed, unintimidated. Some of the crew started cheering for him, and wagers flew fast and furious.

Finally, his attempt at a back splice unravelled, and Voldemort called an end to it.

“Do we think he’s earned his prize?”

The “Ayes” were almost unanimous. Then the boy grinned up at him. And for an insane moment, Voldemort wanted to _smile back._ Bloody hell, clearly his brain was addled from too many days of peaceful routine aboard ship instead of stalking the seas for prey.

Fortunately, he schooled himself in time and hauled the boy to his feet, hurrying him back down to the cabin. One of the men brought the bucket of seawater, and Voldemort sliced off a sliver of soap.

Back behind his desk, he couldn’t force his gaze away as the boy stripped off his shirt, revealing surprisingly firm, lean muscles. The boy realized he was being watched, and his hands stuttered on the waist of his breeches.

Voldemort almost turned his head, feeling strangely guilty, before reminding himself he was a God-damned pirate and this was his prisoner, to whom he owed no courtesy or shred of privacy.

He turned his chair to face the boy’s corner and leaned back. Still in his breeches, the boy blinked at him. He glanced down at himself, then back at Voldemort. Clearly, he was unnerved, but there was something else…a hum vibrating through the room, a low tug between them. Voldemort recognized something in this boy that flared his nostrils and stirred his blood.

Legs spread in his chair, boots planted on the floor, Voldemort took him in,

“Where did the spoiled heir of Albus Dumbledore learn to bend a ship’s line?”

The boy shrugged,

“I never have until today. I’m just good at using my hands.”

Better than good, and quicker than many men Voldemort had sailed with. Perhaps there was more to the pretty little thing than met the eye. _Not that it matters, since he is nothing more than a means to an end._

Yet Voldemort found himself asking,

“Is that so? Hmm. More muscles than I expected. You’re small, but strong. Would’ve thought you much…softer.”

The boy stuttered,

“I… I always…”

He raised an eyebrow,

“Do go on.”

“I always loved the outdoors. Climbing trees, running, swimming. And there’s wrestling. My tutor taught me.”

He flushed scarlet all the way down to his chest, shifting guiltily.

“Did he now?”

Voldemort smiled slowly, wickedly. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial pitch,

“Did your tutor also bugger you senseless?”

The thought that another man might have unlocked that treasure was strangely disappointing. The boy’s eyes popped wide, and a gasp escaped his bow lips,

“No! He was a good man. Not like…”

He swallowed hard, apparently thinking better of what he was going to say,

“No. I’ve never… I would never! My tutor wasn’t like that. He was kind and proper.”

He leaned back in his seat and sneered,

“Ah. Kind and proper men are scarce. How fortunate for you. A shame your luck has run out.”

The boy licked his lips, his gaze dropping from Voldemort’s face down to the bulge between his spread legs, and he shuddered, unmistakable hunger in his eyes.

_Ah yes. There it is._

Voldemort’s instincts were correct…he knew it in his bones. The question was why he should care in the slightest. What did it matter that they shared common desires? Plenty of men did.

Over the years since that initial bloom of excitement and tenderness, Voldemort hadn’t given it much thought beyond finding the odd anonymous man for release. It had been different with Lucius.

Irrepressible smile, blond hair falling over his grey eyes, rebellious and beautiful. They’d been so innocent, so bloody naïve, believing they could have anything good and pure in the belly of that frigate. That they could have happiness despite their low circumstances, their virtual imprisonment.

Perhaps it was the boy’s clear innocence that tugged at him. Sodomy was strictly forbidden in the Royal Navy, and Voldemort’s fumblings with Lucius had happened only in shadow. But as a privateer and now a pirate, it was hardly unusual. Men had sex as they pleased, jaded and far from the giddiness of youthful discovery.

He hadn’t thought on Lucius for years, and it was weak and foolish to do so now. But even as he banished his spectre, he couldn’t take his eyes off his captive. As the boy’s nipples went hard, his cock now unmistakably swelling in his breeches, Voldemort fought his own excitement, his bollocks tightening.

He wanted to sully that innocence. Steal it. Bask in it. He fought the urge to draw the boy between his thighs so he could suck his nipples, one and then the other, so he could hear his gasps of pleasure. Instead he asked,

“Have you truly never fornicated with a man?”

The boy whirled away,

“Of course, I haven’t!”

Dropping to his knees and splashing water over himself from the bucket, his voice ragged.

“That would be unnatural. A sin.”

He shook his head violently,

“It’s disgusting. Shameful. No decent man would entertain such a notion. You’re a fiend.”

_Ah yes. And there_ that _is._ It was foolish to be disappointed, but it settled heavily into Voldemort’s limbs. Ridiculousness, especially since he might be killing the boy in a few weeks.

He shifted his chair back to face his desk, distinctly uncomfortable, stomach unsettled. He pulled his log near, running his fingers along the sturdy spine and over the worn leather cover.

It had always given him a measure of comfort to record the ship’s activities in his logbook. Report the weather and make notes on anything of interest. As if the writing of it somehow gave weight to his meaningless life.

He dipped his quill and inked a fresh page with: _Prisoner is typical gentleman; hypocrite who denies himself pleasure for England’s false sense of morality._

Then he barked,

“You have a minute to wash. Starting now. Do not waste it with sermonizing.”

From the corner of his eye, he caught the pale swathes of flesh as the boy stripped off his breeches, splashed water over his skin, and lathered the soap. Voldemort shouldn’t have wanted to turn his head and look properly, just as he shouldn’t have been surprised Albus Dumbledore’s heir insisted on nonsense about shame and sin.

Why had he thought even for a moment that there might be more to him? That there was any common ground between them? Of course, The boy was just as false as his mentor.

“Time’s up. Bucket by the door.”

Voldemort fixed his gaze on the logbook and dipped his quill. He’d had to hide his inclination to favour his left hand for years after his teacher at the orphanage had caned him for it. He supposed it was one of the benefits of being a pirate…everyone already thought you possessed by the devil.

Although he bent his head to the log, he found his eyes following the boy’s progress. Water dripped down naked flesh, his tight, round buttocks flexing as he bent.

When the boy turned, Voldemort jerked his gaze back down at the page to find dots of ink all over it. Swearing, he ripped it out and started anew.


	15. Chapter 15

_Shouts._

Indistinct and urgent, they echoed overhead, rousing Harry from an unpleasant, fitful sleep in his corner atop the awful blanket. The sun was high in the sky. The stern windows acted as a magnifying glass so that sweat slicked Harry’s skin and dampened his raven hair into a mess of curls.

There were no drapes, and all he could do was huddle in his corner as the temperature rose. They must be well and truly sailing in the West Indies now, for this day was hotter than any other on the journey.

Bolting up as thuds echoed, he rubbed his eyes and listened, breath lodged in his throat. Yes, more shouts, growing in urgency now, and the ship seemed to be changing course. He hurried to the stern windows, peering through the squares of glass framed in wood, seeing nothing but the unbroken horizon.

He waited there as minutes ticked by, footsteps pounding above and orders being shouted, none clear enough for him to make out in his prison cell. Despite the flurry of activity, time passed without anything else actually happening. Then there was a strange calm that stretched out, where the thud of Harry’s heart was too loud in his ears.

More time passed. Perhaps it had been nothing at all. A change of course, and now back to the regular routine, water slapping the hull, the ship creaking.

Yet there was something in the air…a palpable sense of expectation. He waited. Perhaps they’d spotted another merchant ship in the distance to plunder. Or perhaps…

_There!_ In the corner of his field of vision through the windows, it was indeed another ship. Three masts, bigger than their sloop. Harry’s heart raced. Was it a Royal Navy ship? Or a Spanish man-of-war? He squinted, forehead to the hot window, wondering if Voldemort had another spyglass tucked away in his desk.

Whatever it was, it seemed to be following, full sails arching in the wind.

He knelt on the narrow window seat and lifted his hands around his eyes to cut the glare, trying to make out the vessel’s origin, praying to see the Union Jack fluttering in the sky. It was no use, the ship was still too far away.

More time passed, the ship was steadily gaining on them. Harry’s damp skin squeaked on the glass. The mystery vessel came about another few degrees, and there was its flag, snapping in the wind. His stomach dropped.

Black.

It was solid, no white or red embellishments, simply a blunt declaration of intent. But why would pirates attack each other? He supposed for the same reasons they attacked any ship, and it was foolish to expect any kind of loyalty amongst thieves. Pirates surely made rivals of one another.

The ship disappeared from view, and Harry waited. _The Death Eater_ didn’t seem to be attempting to outrun it now. Perhaps the captains knew each other and were friends, and now that they were close enough to make a certain identification…

Harry flew off the window seat as the blast rocked the ship, air slamming from his lungs as he crashed flat on his back. Then another blast, and another. Another, another. Wood splintered, the _boom_ of each cannon rattling his teeth, his ears ringing, heart about to burst from his chest.

He scrambled into the enclosure under the massive desk, tucking the chair back in after him as if that would help, curling into a ball, grateful the wood on three sides reached the floor, giving him an effective hiding place.

The humid, cloying air in his enclosure was even harder to breathe, and terror seized his lungs. If these other pirates won, what would become of him? Would they want him as a ransom, or simply slit his throat or toss him over the side? Or worse?

He gripped his knees tighter, making himself small, hoping to be as forgotten as the cobwebs that strung across the underside of the desk. What if they kept him? Passed him around, or tortured him, or Lord knew what pirates were capable of.

As much as he hated being Voldemort’s prisoner, and as much as he hated the idea of living on Godric’s Hollow with a stranger for a wife, doing his Albus’s bidding, either prospect seemed preferable to this horrifying unknown that had exploded upon him.

He huddled tighter into a ball, whispering a prayer, the continued blasts wreaking havoc on his nerves. Screams tore the air, ragged and despairing, the song of dying men.

The ship shuddered and groaned, its own cannons returning fire. On and on it went, jolting and rolling, the air made of thunder. He plugged his ears and only knew he was screaming by the hoarseness of his throat.

At any moment, Harry was certain _The Death Eater_ would disintegrate in the roar of gunfire, sending him plummeting to the bottom of the sea, the desk his coffin.

Abruptly, the guns went silent. More shouting up top, and the other ship’s cannons fired again but seemed to miss their target with mighty splashes. Were they moving? He wasn’t certain. Then there were no more cannon blasts at all.

Had they surrendered? Were they to be boarded? He strained, listening, but he couldn’t make sense of it. Sweat drenched him now, and he swiped it from his eyes, his shirt and breeches clinging to his skin as he waited, barely breathing.

Harry wasn’t sure how long he remained huddled under the oven of the desk before the key turned in the lock of the cabin door. He pressed his lips together, frozen.

The door opened.

Whoever it was didn’t say a word. Harry would be invisible to them beneath the solid desk. Yet there was a little chunk of wood missing at the bottom, a gouge that had perhaps been ripped away in some unknown battle, or was simply due to a clumsy job moving the desk.

Heart booming in his ears, Harry inched down to peek through. He’d never thought it possible to be so very relieved to spot those gold-tipped boots, but he exhaled in a rush as Voldemort thundered,

“Where the bloody hell are you?”

Harry hadn’t intended to anger him, and now he stayed motionless, terrified any movement or response would be his last. The door slammed shut, and Voldemort’s boots thudded on the planks. Yet it didn’t sound like his usual confident stride, and then there was a burst of noise…a venomous curse and a mighty bang.

It startled Harry from his hidey-hole, and he shoved the chair aside, crawling out and coming almost face-to-face with Voldemort, who had tripped onto his hands and knees. Blood splattered across his face, and he grimaced, teeth bared. He wore his coat, which must have been terribly warm although it was unbuttoned.

Harry could only open and close his mouth like a helpless fish on a hook, waiting for Voldemort to explode to his feet and perhaps run Harry through with his blade, which still hung from his belt.

Then realization dawned: he couldn’t. Was he…yes, he was injured. The mighty pirate king had been brought low, not because he was about to haul Harry out from under the desk, but because he’d _fallen_.

And he didn’t appear able to get back up. This was the perfect opportunity to escape.


	16. Chapter 16

Instead of escaping, Harry crawled closer, dangerously within reach.

“I… Are you…?”

Voldemort only seethed in response, a savage, guttural groan. Harry looked to the closed door.

“Should I call for help?”

The notion seemed to infuriate Voldemort so much that rage fuelled him back to his feet, where he leaned heavily against the desk.

“_No_!”

Harry couldn’t spot exactly where Voldemort was hurt until he came around to stand before him. The coat fell open, and Harry could see the hunk of wood lodged in his right thigh. Sucking in a breath, he inched closer,

“You need the surgeon.”

Tendons in his neck bulging, Voldemort shook his head,

“The men need him more.”

Harry looked away from the garish injury and inquired,

“Are we safe now?”

Voldemort nodded,

“Took out her main mast. She’ll be licking her wounds for a while. Serves them right for trying to take us on. Bloody Grindelwald_._ He attacks anyone and everyone without provocation, no matter the risk. Madman.”

Harry spoke,

“It looked like quite a big ship.”

Grimacing, Voldemort said,

“Aye, but bigger isn’t always better. Those hulking ships are not as…”

He waved his hand in the air as if searching for a word.

“Agile?”

Voldemort pushed off the desk and growled out,

“Yes, you fancy little brat. Not as _agile._ Stay out of my way while…”

He stumbled and would have crashed to the floor if Harry hadn’t darted forward to catch him, almost toppling with the weight as he jammed his left shoulder under Voldemort’s right. Voldemort insisted,

“I don’t need hel…”

Harry took a step, bearing as much of Voldemort’s weight as he could, their sides pressed together as they crossed to the bed,

“Oh for goodness’ sake, you clearly do.”

Voldemort’s harsh breathing was loud in Harry’s ears, and gunpowder, blood, and sweat filled his nose. At least the cabin was compact, and it was only several feet before he levered Voldemort around and deposited him on the side of the mattress.

“I’m fine.”

Voldemort winced, shuddering as he tried to shake off his coat,

“Go back to your corner.”

Perhaps he should have left the man to his own devices since he didn’t deserve any assistance, and certainly not sympathy. Yet here he was, the mighty pirate king, grimacing and bleeding, crippled by injury like any number of sailors before him. He wasn’t some fearless, untouchable god, rising unscathed above danger.

No, he was merely a _man_.

It should have satisfied Harry to see him humbled. Should have made him triumphant. But it unsettled him in a way he couldn’t understand, previously held truths splintered by cannon fire as surely as _The Death Eater’_s hull.

If Voldemort was vulnerable, what hope did Harry have to survive in the brutality of the New World? Here Voldemort was, bleeding, _hurting_, and Harry wanted to make it stop.

He climbed onto the bed behind him and peeled the coat off, easing Voldemort’s arms free of the sleeves, the leather hot to the touch. Then he knelt at Voldemort’s feet and took hold of one of those ostentatious boots. He looked up with an eyebrow raised.

Voldemort watched him, his usual bland or mocking expression replaced by one of genuine bafflement, forehead creased and nose slightly wrinkling. But he lifted his foot, and Harry gently tugged the boot free.

Then the other, which he did slowly since that was the injured leg. He leaned in close. The wood was two inches thick, jagged and splitting. It was lodged in Voldemort’s thigh, his tight black trousers torn where it impaled the muscle, a few inches sticking into the flesh. Hopefully it got some fat too. Harry shook his head,

“You need the surgeon.”

Voldemort shook his head,

“I told you, my men need him more. Just pull it out.”

Harry sighed,

“Do you have bandages, at least? Anything to clean the wound?”

Voldemort nodded to the desk, and Harry rifled around, finding a bottle of rum, clean bandages, and a tin of medical instruments. When he turned back, Voldemort was removing his weapons, keeping them close at hand behind him on the mattress. He narrowed his gaze,

“If you even consider some scheme to arm yourself, I assure you it will be ill-fated.”

Harry shook his head,

“How often must I remind you that I won’t endanger Luna? I am at your mercy.”

He should let the wound fester and perhaps eventually kill Voldemort, but he couldn’t bring himself not to lend assistance, imagining how dreadful the pain was.

Voldemort tried to remove his trousers, fingers clumsy on the fastening, belt unbuckled. It seemed the tables had turned and that Voldemort was at _Harry_’s mercy, at least for the moment. Pulse skittering with a fresh pulse of odd excitement, Harry knelt and batted the pirate’s hands away, finishing the job,

“Up.”

Voldemort _obeyed_, raising his hips so Harry could ease down his trousers and drawers, taking special care over the chunk of wood, tearing the material to make it easier. Voldemort clutched the side of the bed, fingers white.

Now the pirate was naked from the waist down, and Harry was faced with a thick, meaty cock and bollocks nestled in a thatch of dark hair. Throat dry, he ripped his gaze away, focusing on the bloody wound instead.

He handed Voldemort the rum,

“Drink.”

Again, Voldemort obeyed, and Harry’s skin prickled, his breath catching. This man might _kill_ him, yet Harry thrilled at being close to him, at helping him. Perhaps winning some measure of approval. It was lunacy.

He held Voldemort’s leg fast, hand over his knee. There was really nothing to do but get the wood out as gently as he could. He grasped the protuberance and ordered,

“Relax your leg as best you can.”

Voldemort did as he was told.

Fortunately, the wood came free without much effort. Quite unfortunately, it left several slivers of varying sizes embedded in Voldemort’s flesh. Harry glanced up to find blood smeared on Voldemort’s lower lip and realized he’d bitten through the skin.

“You can shout. I doubt the men will hear, given the racket up there.”

Footsteps clomped, and voices called out, a general commotion in the wake of battle. Voldemort gritted out.

“No need,”

Harry rolled his eyes,

“Yes, clearly all is well.”

He fished out a pair of tweezers from the tin. The thought occurred again that he should leave the shards behind, practically ensuring an infection. But if Voldemort died, Harry didn’t know what the rest of the crew would do with him…or _to_ him.

_Better the devil I know._

With his left palm flat on Voldemort’s upper thigh, only inches from his groin, Harry leaned over and went to work. Blood oozed from the wound, and he had to stop to soak it up.

Voldemort’s gaze weighed on him as Harry teased out a thin piece of wood, and the parallels to the fable of the lion with a thorn in its paw weren’t lost on him.

When Voldemort spoke, it was to hoarsely bark,

“Why the hell is it so hot in here?”

Harry focused on his work and spoke out,

“Because you somehow never thought to install drapes to keep out the sun?”

Voldemort gave him a withering look,

“The windows open to let in the breeze.”

Harry blinked over at them, still not seeing how to shove them up.

“Oh.”

Voldemort muttered,

“The ones on either side can be hooked open. Just push them and make sure they latch.”

Harry crossed the cabin and did as instructed, sighing and breathing the fresh, cool air deeply.

“That’s so much better.”

Voldemort sneered,

“Indeed. Are you almost done?”

Harry got out a tinderbox and lit a lantern, then handed it to Voldemort,

“Hold it close.”

He poked around in the wound as gently as he could. Voldemort’s laboured breathing grew harsh and the other sounds of the ship distant. Voldemort asked,

“Are those from the lines?”

At Harry’s frown, he added,

“Your hands. Not as smooth as I would have expected, given your station.”

Voldemort stared down at him, and Harry shifted uneasily, that gaze prickling his skin much like slivers of wood,

“I climb trees…I enjoy…using my body.”

Voldemort’s lips twitched, gaze assessing…_teasing_,

“Do you?”

Without warning, Harry splashed rum into the wound, enjoying Voldemort’s indignant yelp. Then he quickly bandaged it, keeping his eyes off the pirate’s devilish face and nether regions.

“There. I think you’ll live, but the surgeon would have a better idea.”

Voldemort thrust the lantern at him, any hints of teasing gone.

“This is sufficient.”

He pushed to his feet and promptly almost fell flat on his face, the bandage red and soaked.

Harry put the lantern on the floor and pushed Voldemort back onto the bed, pulling up his feet and swinging his legs around,

“For the love of God, just rest here a few minutes at least.”

Perching on the side of the mattress, he pressed another bandage over the seeping wound. The sheets and floor were splattered red, and Harry’s shirt and breeches were splashed with blood as well. Keeping his eyes away from Voldemort’s nudity, Harry asked,

“Were many men hurt?”

“Some.”

“Killed?”

“Two, last I knew.”

“Oh.”

Harry remembered how quickly the other ship had come upon them, everything going from normal to high alert in a heartbeat. And just as quickly, a life could be snuffed out,

“Did they have families?”

“Us.”

“What would have happened if the other ship had gotten close enough to board?”

“We’d have a lot more dead men on our hands. On both sides.”

He wondered how many men Voldemort had killed over the years but didn’t think it prudent to ask. At least Voldemort finally surrendered, relaxing back against his pillow, gaze on the ceiling as Harry kept pressure on the wound.

Voldemort actually shut his eyes after a time, and Harry’s pulse fluttered at the intimacy of it. The pirate king made mortal, his stubborn blood seeping out between Harry’s fingers, though slower now.

Despite his best efforts, Harry’s gaze zeroed in on Voldemort’s soft, reddish prick, curving flat against his belly. It was impossible to ignore, and he had the brief luxury to look.

Filled with blood, Voldemort’s cock would be…impressive. Harry wondered what it would feel like in his hand, if it would be hot to the touch. Would it be bitter, or salty like sweat on his tongue? Would his spendings taste different from Harry’s when he’d shamefully licked his own seed from his hand in the past?

He swallowed thickly. What would that cock feel like shoved inside him? He certainly wouldn’t run from it. No, before he died, Harry wanted to experience a man’s prick inside him, even just once. He was going to hell for his sinful desires regardless, so the journey might as well be worth it.

_What if I die on this ship?_

A bolt of panic caught his breath, and he had to steady his hand on Voldemort’s wound, fighting the urge to scramble away. He stared down at the pirate. _What if he kills me?_

Would this man truly gut him if Albus didn’t pay? Perhaps if Harry continued to help him…if he could ingratiate himself…Voldemort would be unable to slay him or follow through on his threats against Luna. Perhaps Harry could save himself.

His gaze was drawn back to Voldemort’s prick, a low beat of _want_ resounding. Perhaps he could save himself _and_ fulfil his cravings. He’d always imagined he had plenty of time to explore his fantasies, to meet a man he could trust with his secret.

But even if he survived the trip to Godric’s Hollow and the ransom exchange, how soon would he have to marry Ginny Weasley? Growing up, he’d known he’d have to wed eventually, but perhaps not until he was thirty. Plenty of time.

Yet now the sands tumbled through the glass relentlessly. He’d told himself he’d only need it once…to be claimed and ravished the way he’d envisioned, to satisfy his curiosity and desire. And the itch, once scratched, would be manageable, and he could marry as required and be a faithful husband.

But the risks of finding a man to trust on the unknown Godric’s Hollow were great. He should have done it before he’d left England, but short of polling the servants on who would be willing, he hadn’t had the opportunity.

He’d have greatly loved for Mr. Black to share his desires, but the man was good and kind and devoted to his wife and young daughter. Harry had known he’d be rejected. He hadn’t been able to bear the sight of disappointment…and worse, disgust…in his tutor’s eyes.

His own breathing was harsh in his ears. It was beyond sinful and improper to be stirred by Voldemort’s genitals, the man’s blood all over, an open wound under Harry’s hand. Had it only been, what, not even an hour since Harry had cowered under the desk, certain he’d be swallowed by the sea at any moment?

The fear had left a strange desire thrumming through him. Not mere desire for the male form…that he’d felt for ages. But a yearning to reach out and take hold of life while he still could. He could feel Voldemort’s pulse through the wound, the steady drum of his defiant heart, and he wanted to touch it, taste it, revel in being alive. At that very moment, another volley of cannonballs might be hurtling through the air, about to obliterate them. Nothing was assured, each breath its own little miracle.

He eyed Voldemort, wondering what the reaction would be if he leaned over and took the pirate’s cock between his lips. Surely most men wouldn’t protest a wet, warm mouth around them, no matter whose it was.

One of the boys from a neighbouring estate had been sucked by an admiral’s daughter once, and he’d described it in such ribald detail Harry had stiffened in his breeches and not known of whom he should be more jealous…his friend for being serviced, or the girl for being able to take a hot prick into her mouth.

“See anything you like?”

Harry jerked his head up, ripping his gaze from Voldemort’s groin to find the pirate watching him. His mouth had gone dry, and he hoarsely replied,

“What? No.”

He busied himself changing the bandage again,

“This needs to be stitched. There’s no way around it.”

Voldemort hummed,

“Mmmm. Time will tell.”

He huffed. Why was the bastard so stubborn?

“I bet you it does.”

Voldemort met his gaze then, brown eyes fathomless, but his lips twitching,

“What will the prize be this time?”

Was it possible? Not only was the pirate king a mortal…bleeding and as vulnerable to injury as the rest of them…but he was entertaining a joke? Heart picking up, Harry pondered his answer,

“The next time you go ashore, I accompany you. I get to run down the beach as fast as I can.”

Voldemort laughed sardonically,

“Yes, I’m sure you’d love to run away.”

Harry explained,

“Not running to escape, simply for exercise. For the sake of it.”

Voldemort’s forehead creased.

“That’s it? You want to…run?”

He nodded,

“It’s been far too long since I had the opportunity.”

Voldemort shrugged carelessly,

“It’s a bet.”

There was no way Voldemort could think he’d win given the amount of blood already soaking the fresh bandage. Harry simply nodded and accepted the unsaid thanks, his own blood rushing far too fast in the hush of the cabin


	17. Chapter 17

Sitting on the side of the bed, Voldemort hid a grimace as grizzled Mr. Ollivander poked at his thigh. Greying hair flopping over his forehead, the surgeon nodded,

“Stitches are healing up nicely already.”

He glanced at the corner of the cabin,

“Thanks in no small part to young Mr. Potter’s ministrations.”

Voldemort grunted, and Ollivander went about applying a fresh bandage. It was true the boy had been helpful, and Voldemort was still puzzled as to why. Surely the boy had an ulterior motive.

He needed to remain vigilant and not be moved by any acts of kindness, for kindness always carried a price. The prisoner only wished to worm into his good graces to save his own skin. Voldemort had already made the silly bet, but that had to be the end of it.

Of course, the boy had been right, and as soon as Snape had taken one look at the bloody mess in Voldemort’s cabin, he’d shouted for the surgeon and the needle and thread had come out.

But he had to remember that the boy was his prisoner. He was nothing more than a representative of money and revenge. Of the sea’s justice. There was naught to be grateful for.

Still, it was impressive that he hadn’t been at all squeamish about the blood. For having lived a life of luxury, he truly was surprisingly practical and adept at physical tasks. The weight of his hand against the wound had been reassuring, as was the touch of his knuckles to Voldemort’s forehead a few times in the night, following Ollivander’s orders to check for fever.

The last time, just before dawn, Voldemort had pretended to remain asleep. The windows were still open, the cool breeze lovely on his skin, his sheet kicked aside. He’d heard the whisper of the boy’s feet on the planks, the press of his fingers against his forehead, assessing for a few moments before lifting. He’d waited for the footsteps to retreat, but the boy had remained standing by the bed.

He’d witnessed the hunger when the boy had eyed his prick after he’d tended to the wound, and if not for the burning ache in his thigh, Voldemort might have gotten hard under that eager gaze.

In the early morning, that gaze had returned, hot on his skin, and Voldemort had allowed him to look. His balls had tingled, and he’d had to shift and stretch to send footsteps scurrying back to the corner.

Ollivander finished the bandage and groaned as he straightened, arching his back. Voldemort frowned,

“You weren’t injured yesterday, were you?”

The surgeon’s hair greyed more with each week, it seemed. He’d been forced into service on a pirate ship, years back, thanks to a bad wager and had discovered he liked it. Ollivander laughed,

“No, it’s simply old age. More aches and pains by the day, it seems.”

He pulled up a clean-but-rumpled pair of trousers, aware of the boy’s gaze on him. Voldemort had determinedly dressed…boots and all, ready for battle even if he was being treated as an invalid. He eyed his feet. The leather could do with a polish, and the gold tips had dulled. He should shine them now while he lazed around useless. He stood, the bed frame creaking. Ollivander was already upon him,

“No, no, no. You will stay abed the rest of this day. You insisted on leading the funerals last night, walking up there as if you were unscathed when you were in agony. You can fool the men, but I know better. You lost more than your fair share of blood, and infection could kill you. So, you will remain here and rest until at least tomorrow, and preferably the following days as well. The sun is shining, the wind is blowing, and we’re nearing Hogsmeade with nary a sail on the horizon. If that changes, you’ll be informed. In the meantime, get some rest or I’ll hold you down and dose you.”

Standing had sent a fresh burning throb through his thigh, and although out loud he grumbled, Voldemort secretly was grateful to sit again. As captain, he should want to be surveying his kingdom, ensuring smooth operations.

But truthfully, his muscles were sore, a low headache that had seemingly been present for years pulsated, and of course the gash on his leg was impossible to ignore. The thought of being up top with all the men and their incessant _noise_ was off-putting in the extreme. He still made a show of his displeasure, and Ollivander resolutely ignored him before taking his leave. He’d barely gone when there was a knock, and a young voice called out,

“Rations.”

Voldemort answered, shoving himself off the bed with a wince.

“Wait,”

The boy piped up from the corner,

“But the surgeon just said…”

“Shut up.”

Hobbling slightly, Voldemort stood behind his desk. Sitting would probably be worse, so he opened his log and leaned heavily over it, hands on the scarred wood. He called,

“Enter.”

Their newest crew member, Fletcher from the merchant ship, came in with fresh water and a bowl of salted meat and peas. He glanced around as if looking for something. All the blood had of course been cleaned.

His eyes narrowed at the boy, who wore one of Voldemort’s old shirts, too big on him by half, the sleeves rolled up and the collar loose almost to mid-chest, a scattering of light hair peeking out of the white linen. The boy’s shirt had been ruined by blood, but his breeches only had a few stains that were invisible under the tails of the shirt. Fletcher nodded toward the boy,

“Got ’is food. Not sure why we’s wastin’ it.”

Voldemort gazed unseeingly at the log, fingers tightening on the desk,

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”

Fletcher carelessly dropped the cup and bowl on the floor near the boy with a clatter,

“Well, here you go, Potter, you bloody loiter-sack. Wonder how your bitch of a sister is. I was always real nice to her, and she never gave me the time of day. Stuck-up cunt. I hope your mentor don’t pay and we get the chance to really stick it up her.”

The boy was instantly on his feet, fists clenched,

“Don’t you dare even speak about my sister. No one’s going to lay a finger on her while I still have breath.”

Fletcher sneered,

“I’m sure it can be arranged that you don’t no more.”

Voldemort banged the log shut and stood straight, ignoring the fiery throb in his leg. He eyed him. Mangy red hair, freckles, yellowed teeth with at least one missing, skinny and hard, a feral little man with a beady gaze,

“I’m not sure what you hope to gain with this display, but if it’s to impress me, you’ve missed the mark. Leave, and tell Mr. Snape you are no longer permitted in my cabin.”

After opening his mouth as if to argue, Fletcher apparently thought better of it and scuttled out. The boy took a few steps, as if he wanted to give chase,

“I can protect myself against him.”

Voldemort snorted,

“Good. That wasn’t about you. Fletcher needs to learn to obey my orders.”

He managed to make it back to the bed with even steps, swallowing a groan as he stretched out again, his boots undoubtedly sullying the linens. It was a luxury to have a true bed and not a hammock, to have soft sheets. He should enjoy his rest, since it didn’t come often, yet he found himself thinking too much of his prisoner,

“Now eat, and if you say you’re not hungry I’ll shove that food down your gullet myself.”

After a minute of silence, the boy said,

“You should eat too. Or at least drink.”

He scratched at his face. There was little more than peach fuzz there, but he clearly wasn’t used to it. Voldemort had a jug of water by the bed, and he sipped from a cup.

“There. See how amenable I can be?”

It was the boy’s turn to snort, and Voldemort had to stop himself from smiling. Why on earth was he smiling at Albus Bloody Dumbledore’s heir? The blood loss must have been severe indeed. He stretched back on his bed.

“How old were you when you first killed a man?”

Voldemort blinked at the unexpected question. The boy poked at his food and added,

“I’m just wondering who was the first?”

Lucius. The answer came unbidden. Voldemort hadn’t fired the cannon, true, but he could still feel the grip of Lucius’s hands as they shoved him to safety. Could still taste the spray of Lucius’s blood. Shaking his head to banish the past, he said,

“Fifteen.”

“Oh. Was it awful?”

He simply answered,

“Yes,”

before he could craft a more appropriate response. As a pirate captain, he should have laughed cruelly and proclaimed that he loved every moment of bloodshed.

Truthfully, he’d done what he must over the years, but he never enjoyed it. Constantly striving and hunting, his power over the men tenuous, watching over his shoulder with one hand on his cutlass, any control over the sea merely an illusion as well. Oh, for a life where he could just be.

But enough of this. If they were to be trapped in the cabin together for the time being, he had to forestall any more damn questions. Imperiously, he ordered,

“Read me something. Shakespeare.”

There was only silence from the corner, and when Voldemort looked over, the boy sat frozen, a piece of dried meat between his fingers, his hand halfway to his mouth,

“R…read?”


	18. Chapter 18

Was it Voldemort’s imagination, or had the colour drained from the boy’s face?

“I’m bored. Surely you are too. Here is the solution.”

He narrowed his gaze. It would be an agreeable way to pass the day, yet the boy was acting as if he’d been ordered to walk the plank. He seemed to recover himself and shook his head,

“I’m afraid I can’t. I wasn’t able to bring my spectacles when you kidnapped me.”

He shoved the meat in his mouth and chewed,

“There’s a magnifying glass in the top drawer of the desk.”

His throat worked as he swallowed,

“Oh. I’m… I’m not sure it will really work the same.”

Annoyance flared,

“Try it.”

Face pinched, the boy made his way to the desk, bare feet hesitant. He opened the drawer, then closed it,

“I don’t see it.”

He growled,

“Look. Harder. If I have to get out of bed and it’s in there, I will not be pleased.”

Sighing, the boy opened the drawer and promptly removed the glass. Why the devil was he so opposed to the idea? The longer he dragged his feet going to the bookshelves, the more Voldemort’s bafflement gave way to irritation. He declared,

“I want The Tempest.”

Tilting his head to read the spines, the boy ran his fingers over them, the glass hanging unused in his right hand. Seconds ticked by, and he still hadn’t picked out the book. Was he being obstinate for the sake of it? Now that Voldemort had decided he wanted to relax, his prisoner was apparently determined to be difficult,

“The blue one at the end.”

The boy took the book back to his corner. Very, very slowly. Voldemort inhaled deeply, fists clenching. Clearly, he’d been too lax, or seeing him brought low by the injury had put ideas into the boy’s head as to just who the hell was in charge here. The boy was his prisoner and needed to be reminded of it. Voldemort commanded,

“Start reading. Now.”

Feet tucked under him, the boy opened the book, the old leather creaking. He held the glass, but didn’t use it,

“Uh…”

He sneered,

“I believe we begin on a ship at sea, do we not? You are lettered, aren’t you?”

He’d worked damn hard to learn to read and speak more or less like a gentleman, a struggle Albus Dumbledore’s heir could never understand. Voldemort had wanted to pass the time pleasantly for both of them, and this bizarre rebellion was his thanks?

The boy’s cheeks went even redder, and something flared in his eyes…embarrassment, fear, shame. He gripped the book so tightly his fingers were white. Voldemort realized there was a tiny divot in his chin that was only visible from certain angles, not quite a cleft.

As the boy’s jaw clenched, Voldemort watched him, baffled, the rush of anger and frustration giving way to utter confusion. Did Dumbledore raise an heir so lazy that he hadn’t learned to read? No. Impossible.

The sheer misery etched on the boy’s face tugged at Voldemort, and for a moment of madness, he wished he could ease the mysterious pain. He crushed the impulse, his voice hard as stone,

“Are you stupid?”

Instead of indignant denial, the boy slammed the book shut and shouted,

“Yes!”

Voldemort blinked. He could only ask,

“What?”

The boy clutched the book to his chest, eyes on the floor,

“I’m a dullard. I can’t read.”

Ridiculous. Voldemort laughed humourlessly,

“What game do you think you’re playing?”

He tried to imagine what the boy would gain from this ruse and came up empty,

“Do you think I’m stupid? Your station, the way you speak…of course you can read.”

Face scarlet, the boy’s chest rose and fell,

“I’m telling you I can’t. I’m stupid.”

Fury swept Voldemort to his feet despite the howl of protest from his wound,

“And I call you a liar. It’s a peculiar lie, I’ll grant you that. A simpleton wouldn’t know the words you do. Wouldn’t be able to use them properly, as you do. You’ve shown intelligence in how quickly you learned to bend the line, in tending to my leg. Why do you insist on this fiction?”

The boy slumped against the wall, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse,

“I barely read half as well as most children. A quarter. It’s the truth. Luna has read to me since I was small…read for me, covering up my insufficiency. Tutor after tutor failed to educate me. Then Mr. Black came, and…”

Looking down, he swallowed hard.

Yes, there was definitely something there, a vulnerability regarding the tutor. Voldemort filed away the information, ignoring a spark of something that could not be jealousy, before prompting,

“And what?”

The boy continued,

“He was able to teach me more than anyone else had, but there was nothing to be done for the fact that I’m simply lacking. I don’t have the capacity to read and learn the way other people do.”

Still gripping the book, he cleared his throat,

“Mr. Black tried everything to teach me, but it was hopeless. He made sure to drill me in vocabulary. Made sure no one in society would ever know from a drawing room conversation. It was all he could do.”

Voldemort stood there in the face of the boy’s defeat and found he hated it. He’d worked for days to cow him, but now Voldemort was decidedly…most inconveniently…unsettled.

“How can this be, when your mind is not diminished?”

The boy laughed, a harsh bite of sound,

“I wish I knew. Here, I’ll demonstrate.”

Opening the book again, he struggled through the first part of the scene, his voice lacking any inflection, mixing up small words and stumbling over others, with names especially garbled. He didn’t pause in the proper places, all the words streaming together in a slurry as if they held no meaning, as though he was reading a foreign language. He held up a hand,

“Enough.”

He sat back heavily on the side of the bed, his stitches straining, fire in his thigh. He ignored it,

“I believe you.”


	19. Chapter 19

Voldemort held up a hand,

“Enough.”

He sat back heavily on the side of the bed, his stitches straining, fire in his thigh. He ignored it,

“I believe you.”

The boy muttered, head down, still holding the book to his chest like a shield,

“Thank you,”

He leaned back and inquired,

“What does your mentor make of it?”

He had a feeling he knew the answer. Not that he should care. _It’s merely curiosity._ The boy raised his head, expression grim,

“As much as my mentor wanted me when I was an idea, the reality had been a marked disappointment. Luna and my tutor did their best to shield me, but of course Albus found out the truth. He was furious.”

He shuddered.

“He insisted I wasn’t applying myself. He…”

After a few moments, Voldemort pressed, tension stringing tighter through him,

“What did he do?”

The boy stared at his feet,

“When I was ten, he rapped my knuckles with a ruler until I was able to read a verse from the Bible without stumbling, until I could say every word properly. After an hour of failure, he’d broken my hand. It swelled up terribly. Luna was horrified. I think he was too, because he left me alone after that. He accepted I was a useless dunce. The truth is, he probably won’t pay a penny to get me back.”

As soon as the words escaped, he jolted, eyes wide. For a moment, Voldemort couldn’t quite catch a breath. Dumbledore would pay. He _must_. Before Voldemort could respond, the boy added,

“I didn’t mean…no, you see, of course he’ll pay the ransom. Everyone will know about it, and he’d never be able to abide seeming weak.”

Acid roiled in Voldemort’s stomach. If Dumbledore didn’t pay and the men were denied their prize, it would be a bloody mess,

“And he always speaks highly of me to his associates, boasting of my fictitious accomplishments. He won’t let me be killed by pirates. He does value me. In…in his own way.”

Voldemort’s fervour for the ransom remained strong, while the urge to strangle Albus Dumbledore with his bare hands had intensified intolerably.

“He’d better.”

It was nonsense to be affronted for the boy’s sake that Albus should treat him so poorly because of his difficulties reading. Dumbledore still wasn’t satisfied, even though the boy was smart and capable and…

_Enough._ Voldemort quelled the absurd urge to offer some reassurance. The boy was his prisoner! He was satisfactory. Nothing more, and nothing mattered but getting the money. Exacting revenge.

Voldemort remained confident that Albus Dumbledore’s pride would rule the day,

“He will raise the ransom or face far too much ridicule and scrutiny from his peers.”

The boy nodded eagerly,

“Yes. He hates to be seen as lesser in any way. Even if I have to work myself to the bone to repay him, he’ll find a way to raise the money. Luna and her husband will see to it. Luna loves me truly and is impossible to resist when she sets her mind to something. She has always had a way with our mentor”

Voldemort grumbled,

“Your father had better pay.”

They sat in awkward silence as he cursed himself for engaging with his captive in the first place. Then he said,

“I suppose I’ll just have to read myself to pass the time.”

Holding out his hand, Voldemort waited for the book. The boy passed it over, then retreated to his corner. Voldemort stretched back on the bed gingerly, his wound aching. He opened the book, its pages slightly yellowed and delicate, the binding beginning to come loose. The boy sat with his legs pulled in, his forehead resting on his knees.

“On a ship at sea: a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning heard.”

The boy raised his head, and Voldemort noticed his eyes weren’t the typical shade of green, but the colour of the most exquisite, the rarest, the most expensive emeralds. As Voldemort read on, pitching his voice alternately lower and higher for the different characters, the boy listened avidly, a small smile curving his pretty lips.

Gazing over the assembled men, Voldemort stood tall, his wound only throbbing dully now, hardly anything at all. After three days in his cabin reading Shakespeare, Cervantes, and Marlowe aloud while the boy listened, seemingly content, it was time to resume his duties. He’d made the odd appearance up on deck so the men didn’t suspect, and now his leg was fit enough that he barely limped.

“We’re docking at Hogsmeade.”

As a cheer rang up, he raised his hand,

“Only for the day to trade our cargo and resupply. We are all strictly on duty. No drinking. No whoring.”

Now a grumble vibrated across the deck,

“I assure you, I will provide you with all the rum you can drink tonight when we are back aboard and safely tucked away in a cove down the coast. Not just swill either…the finest you’ve ever tasted.”

A voice whined,

“Can’t we get the girls to come down to the docks, at least? We won’t say nothin’, we swear.”

Voldemort bit back a sigh,

“You know damn well that those ladies are adept at ferreting out information that could be useful to sell to another crew.”

More grumbling, and Avery who’d proven himself sensible and brave, said,

“The captain’s right. No sense in risking our ransom for a few minutes of pleasure.”

Another man piped up,

“Speak for yourself! I last a damn sight longer.”

There was laughter then, the current of resentment dissipating. Voldemort gazed at them intently.

“We need to stay sharp. No one is to breathe a word about our hostage to anyone. No exceptions. Not a drop of alcohol, and if you dare to darken Madam Rosmerta’s door to visit her girls, you will lose your share of the ransom. Understood?”

Snape called out,

“Aye, Captain,”

And the others joined in, some more reluctantly than others. Voldemort smirked,

“It will be worth the short-term sacrifice in the end, I promise you. Let’s keep our heads on and eyes on the prize!”

This roused a cheer, and he dismissed the men, turning to the bow. Snape joined him, saying,

“That rum had better be exquisite, or they’ll take a vote on a new captain.”

Voldemort chuckled at the joke, ignoring a slither of unease. He’d kept control by being firm yet fair, but many a pirate captain had been bested by mutiny. In another fortnight, they’d have their prize and see that the sacrifices had been worth it,

“It will be Hogsmeade’s finest.”

Snape squinted up at the sky.

“Clouds coming in from the north. Better find a safe harbour tonight close to Hogsmeade.”

He nodded,

“Aye.”

Snape inquired,

“Who will watch the prisoner while we go ashore?”

A strange pang of guilt squirmed in his gut. It would be torture for the boy to be so close and unable to get solid land under his feet,

“I’ll keep him locked in. Put Nott on guard duty. He’s trustworthy. Yes?”

“Yes. And you should relax and perhaps find someone to screw. I can handle the trade.”

He nodded

“Maybe I will.”

It had been ages. Some of the men on board had each other, and in Hogsmeade, no one gave a damn who had sex with whom. In the pirate world, men could be as good as married if they chose. Some even wore each other’s rings and contracted together in matelotage.

“That’s the spirit.”

Snape clapped him on the shoulder and left him in peace. Voldemort knew it likely mystified Snape and the others that he didn’t bugger anyone on board. But he’d decided years ago that he wouldn’t. He’d been tempted at times to take up bold young men on offers of willing mouths or arses but had instituted a rule against ever screwing a crew member. It only bred competition and hostility. Better to hold himself removed. Untouchable.

he ducked down the ladder. The boy waited in the cabin, limbs jittery with excitement as he asked,

“Do you know how long the beach is? How far it extends? If I run…”

He snapped,

“You won’t be running.”

The boy smiled, a puff of laughter escaping with a flash of white teeth,

“I told you, I don’t mean to escape. I am resigned to my fate as your prisoner. You threatened my sister, and I’d never endanger Luna or her babe. Never. I will return. Or you could run alongside? No, not with your leg. Another crewman could?”

Voldemort could not allow himself to be swayed.

“No. You’ll stay on board.”

He strode to his desk and sat in his chair, taking up his quill. The boy certainly wasn’t laughing now.

“But we made a bet. I won. I know you remember. Those stitches in your leg should prompt you.”

He growled,

“I remember. Hogsmeade is not suitable. Far too many people. It’s not possible.”

The boy whined,

“But you _promised_!”

Unbelievably, an _apology_ formed on Voldemort’s tongue, and he barely bit it back. Why should he be sorry to break an oath to his hostage? He was a pirate, after all. Albus Dumbledore had seen to that.

Still, he found himself saying,

“Too many people. We’ll find an island soon enough. We need to make repairs thanks to that lunatic Grindelwald. Somewhere uninhabited. Big enough for you to have a run.”

There, he was being reasonable.

The boy shook his head, pacing, rolling his shirtsleeves past his elbows, displaying a hint of the firm, trim muscles hidden beneath the linen,

“Can I at least go ashore? Get off this ship and stretch my legs?”

He shook his head,

“You’ll stay here.”

The boy spat, creamy cheeks flushing as he paced,

“You’re a liar,”

While Voldemort had thought him pretty upon first glance, now he found himself even more drawn to the boy’s face. A few times whilst reading aloud, he’d lost his place in the text because he’d found himself watching the boy and the way he listened with his eyes closed, a dreamy smile tugging at his mouth.

The boy’s tongue darted out to lick his lips. He demanded,

“Why did I believe you even for a moment? Why did I think better of you because you read to me and were kind about my deficiencies?”

Voldemort tore his gaze away,

“I don’t know, since apparently I must remind you that I’m a bloody pirate!”

The boy’s anger and hurt shouldn’t have moved him. He shouldn’t have wanted to live up to any expectations. Why the devil should he care? He had nothing to prove,

“Can I at least go up on deck?”

He spat out,

“No.”

He wanted to explain that there were too many risks; that if the boy were captured by another crew, he might be tortured or worse. _And I won’t get my ransom. That’s what’s really important._ He sneered.

“You’ll survive.”

He turned his attention to his tasks, going over the list of cargo to trade, and soon enough they were in Hogsmeade. Voices rang out over the water, and the boy went to kneel by the open window, craning his neck. Voldemort stood behind him, failing to keep his eyes off the boy. There was only a glimpse of palm trees and huts, people milling around where the beach curved,

“If you shout…”

Grumbling, the boy sighed,

“I won’t.”

Voldemort grabbed his coat and left before he was compelled to make any more promises.


	20. Chapter 20

Head buzzing pleasantly, Voldemort left the men to their merriment in the forecastle, closing a hatch behind him in the passageway. The music and boisterous shouts faded by the stern, and the lashing wind and rain reached his ears. With a sigh, he climbed to the main deck, soaked to the skin in moments, his coat forgotten by the barrel of rum. He made his rounds, checking on the poor sods who’d drawn the night watch, promising them extra grog tomorrow. They were safely at anchor, but it was still miserable on deck. Carrying a small sack, he returned below, finally approaching his cabin. He nodded to Nott,

“Any trouble?”

Nott shook his head,

“Not a peep, Captain.”

He nodded and waved his hand,

“Dismissed. Go eat and have as much rum as you’d like.”

Grinning, Nott passed him the key and hurried away. Voldemort hesitated. It was foolish to still feel guilty…or to feel guilty whatsoever…but he hated not living up to a wager, no matter with whom it was made.

He’d stayed on deck while they left Hogsmeade and made their way to the cove, then eaten and drank too much rum with the men, Snape watching him with a raised eyebrow. He couldn’t avoid it anymore and twisted the key.

The boy was in his corner, curled on the blanket, either asleep or pretending to be. He’d lit one of the lanterns at some point, and it still flickered. Voldemort was about to tiptoe inside when he caught himself and marched boldly, boots striking the floor. _It’s my cabin._ He dropped the sack on the floor by the corner,

“There’s fruit. Mango, orange, and a plum.”

Dropping any pretence, the boy sat up and opened the rough canvas,

“Thank you.”

He pulled out the mango and held it in his hands, peering at it curiously, then poking at the skin.

“Here.”

Voldemort took his dagger from his belt and handed it to him. Only once the brass handle was in the boy’s grasp did he stop to question just what the hell he was doing. _This is why I should keep to one cup of rum._

But the boy only peeled the fruit before passing the weapon back. He took a tentative bite of the mango, then moaned. Juice dripped down his fingers, and his tongue darted out, licking them clean, as if he didn’t want to waste a drop.

Voldemort spun around and started tugging at his soaked clothes, commanding himself to ignore the coiling heat in his belly. He stripped them off and stretched out naked on the bed, determined to go to sleep.

It had been a long day, and he’d had to be on guard in Hogsmeade…weighing every word, performing, wearing his cursedly hot coat, satisfied with the whispers that followed in his wake. _“There goes the Lord Voldemort.”_

Now he could exhale and relax. Well, he would if the boy stopped making such obscene noises. Each slurp and sigh of pleasure went straight to Voldemort’s prick.

_To hell with it._

He took himself in hand, because why the devil shouldn’t he? It was his cabin, and he didn’t give a damn what his prisoner thought. Even if a glance told him his prisoner was now transfixed, the rest of the fruit abandoned in his lap, eyes locked on Voldemort’s stiffening cock.

With his right hand tucked behind his head, Voldemort spread his legs. He licked his palm with a long, slow stroke and lazily, he worked himself to full hardness, the boy’s feverish gaze boring into his skin, setting him aflame.

He could only glimpse the boy’s shadow from the corner of his eye in the low, guttering light of the lantern, but was certain he watched every pass of Voldemort’s hand over his shaft.

_Get it done and go to sleep._

Yet he couldn’t ignore the boy’s curious hunger. Couldn’t deny himself the thrill of it, even though he knew it was madness. He’d kept himself in check for so long. More than that, it was forever since Voldemort had been desired with such pure, raw honesty. Why shouldn’t he have a taste of the forbidden fruit? Just this once, if the boy wanted it.

_Is it honesty, though? Or is he playing me like Avery’s fiddle? Trying to ensure his survival?_

The merry tune Avery currently played in the forecastle as the men caroused echoed faintly through the ship beyond the din of the storm. Voldemort should close his eyes, jerk himself quickly to completion, and let the distant music be his lullaby.

Yet his craving would not be denied. Voldemort would leave it up to the boy. Teasing back the hood from his cock, he asked,

“Does it make your prick hard, to watch me?”

For the space of too many heartbeats, each faster and faster, he was afraid there would be no reply. Then, from the darkness, a breathy answer.

“Yes.”

Relief shouldn’t have sweetened his veins, but it flowed. It was unwise to play these games with his prisoner—his bounty. But really, what better revenge than deflowering Dumbledore’s heir? What a blow to the snake’s pride that would be.

And if it gave Voldemort the opportunity to touch those trim muscles, to taste and explore… All the better. A slow smile lifted his lips,

“Do you want a closer look?”

On tentative feet, the boy neared, wide eyes darting between Voldemort’s face and his cock. Bending up his left leg with his foot flat on the mattress, Voldemort ignored the twinging from his stitches and rocked his hips, his body afire, in danger of being consumed by the boy’s gaze alone…by the _longing_ in it.

If it was false, the boy belonged on the London stage. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and he licked his lips before blurting,

“I want… If I should die, first I want…”

He seemed to be searching for the right words before croaking,

“I don’t want to die like this.”

Voldemort raked his gaze down the boy’s body and up again,

“Like what?”

The shirt was hanging loosely, obscuring the tenting of his breeches, but Voldemort was certain he was hard. Oh, he ached to see that swelling cock, to behold the evidence of the boy’s desire. The boy opened and closed his mouth with a snap, and Voldemort put him out of his scarlet-cheeked misery.

“A virgin?”

Sighing, the boy nodded,

“I’ve been too afraid.”

Voldemort’s blood sang, a primal, possessive urge galloping through him,

“Truly, no man ever bent you? No lady slipped her hand into your breeches behind the rosebushes, or whore plied her trade?”

The boy shook his head bashfully,

“Never. I don’t want a lady. Or a whore. Only a man. I don’t know why, but it’s always been like that for me.”

His innocence was as intoxicating as the damn rum, and Voldemort reached out his hand and crooked his finger. Adam’s apple bobbing, the boy took another step, still out of reach,

“Is it… Would you rather have a woman? Or…”

He whispered, eyes shining with unmistakable hope,

“Are you like me? Unnatural?”

It was absurd to betray any truth, yet he found himself nodding. But his desire wasn’t selfless…far from it. The urge to be the first to plunder that sweet, tight arse beat in Voldemort like a war drum, and it was all he could do to keep himself in check.

Leaving his hard prick alone for the moment, lest he embarrass himself, he caressed his nipples instead, satisfied when the boy’s gaze followed his fingers. He said,

“I tried a woman once. Friction took its course. But it wasn’t like this.”

He took hold of his shaft again, thumbing over the head.

“Do you want me to show you? How it can be between two men?”

The boy jerked his head in a nod,

“Take off your clothes.”

The boy shed off his clothing and tossed it aside shyly. He was exquisite. His long, slim prick stood straight out from a nest of dark curls. Tension rippled through his lean muscles, and in the fading lamplight his flesh was golden, his nipples were a dusky rose, peaked without being touched.

And oh, how Voldemort wanted to touch.


	21. Chapter 21

The boy licked his lips.

“What should I do?”

He drawled out the order,

“Get the bottle of oil from the middle drawer of my desk. Then come here.”

Instead of creeping hesitantly, the boy rushed to the desk and then the bed, eyes raking Voldemort up and down. Voldemort put both hands behind his head and raised an eyebrow,

“Well?”

With a sharp inhalation, the boy climbed up over him. They both shuddered as their naked flesh met, and Voldemort took hold of the boy’s hips, tempted to plunge right up into him but keeping himself in check.

“Like…like this?”

The boy asked, straddling him, strung tight. Surely frightened, but pressing on, at the edge of the precipice and ready to leap. His muscles quivered, excitement lighting his green emerald eyes, and Voldemort wondered if he looked similar when he ran.

“Is this right?”

The boy gazed at Voldemort with such openness, asking for guidance, trusting despite every reason he shouldn’t. A little furrow appeared between the boy’s brows,

“Does it work like this? Or should I be on my hands and knees?”

And despite every bloody reason _he_ shouldn’t, Voldemort found himself opening too, enticed by the boy’s innocence. He smiled up at him, running soothing hands over his tense thighs,

“It works in all sorts of ways.”

As much as he would love to pummel the boy on his hands and knees, right then he’d rather ease him and sate his innocent craving. Reward that trust. They both wanted it, so why shouldn’t they steal pleasure where they could? He took the boy’s hand and poured oil over his fingers, the scent of coconut sweet and cloying,

“Open yourself for me.”

Eagerly, the boy reached behind, then tensed, a gasp on his lips and he blurted.

“You won’t fit,”

Cock painfully hard, Voldemort drew small circles on the boy’s firm thighs with his fingertips, avidly watching the flex of the boy’s muscles,

“Slowly. Have you fingered yourself like this before?”

The boy whimpered, eyes fluttering and mouth parting,

“Yes. But it will take too long to go slowly. Just take me now. Do it.”

He chided,

“Patience.”

Aside from not wanting to tear him open, Voldemort’s blood roared watching him work, even though his hole and fingers were hidden from view. It made it more exciting that he couldn’t see, the anticipation growing, every moan and sigh sending tinder sparks to his bollocks.

“Please, it’s enough.”

The boy withdrew his slick hand and leaned onto Voldemort’s chest. His face creased as if he were pained,

“_Please.”_

Voldemort oiled his own cock, then took hold of the boy’s hips and guided him onto it, the head nudging that tight opening,

“Is this what you desire?”

In answer, the boy closed his eyes and bravely sank down, taking in the whole head of Voldemort’s prick, his eyes watering as he gasped,

“Oh!”

A flush spread down his chest, and Voldemort traced it with his fingertips, circling the boy’s nipples, eliciting a shameless moan.

Inch by inch, the boy lowered himself, Voldemort holding his hips steady again, easing some of his weight and biting back a groan. That tight, perfect heat enclosed him…embraced him, the pressure almost too good. He couldn’t remember the last time sex had been like this. Normally he barely looked at the other man, but with the boy, he was riveted.

He watched as emotions played over the boy’s face…pain, wonder, exhilaration. Such a dauntless young man, boldly taking what he desired. The heat of him gripping Voldemort was exquisite, and sweat beaded on Voldemort’s forehead as he struggled to keep control.

Had Voldemort been so fearless his first time? It had been rushed and awkward and painful, though Lucius had taken as much care as possible. Voldemort was struck by the thought that he didn’t want to hurt the boy, which was idiocy.

He might have to _kill_ him.

His breath caught and muscles seized, and the boy opened his eyes, almost all the way impaled on Voldemort’s prick, trembling, a tear hovering on his lashes.

Voldemort should roll him over onto his hands and knees and take him the way he would an anonymous man on the beach in Hogsmeade in the dead of night. Instead he nearly reached up to wipe the tear away before it could run down the boy’s red cheek.

Thankfully, the boy swiped at it first, gritting his teeth as he fully seated himself, not backing off. He looked down, then up at Voldemort, an incredulous, giddy smile blooming over his face,

“It fits.”

He breathed,

“I have a cock inside me.”

He ran his palm over Voldemort’s chest, leaving sparks in his wake,

“I’ve dreamed of this for so long.”

His smile flickered, brow creasing as he breathed harder, and Voldemort could practically see the dogs of shame giving chase in the boy’s mind. The boy murmured,

“I know I shouldn’t. And with you, of all men. Yet…”

He rolled his hips experimentally,

“It feels so good.”

Taking a deep breath, he nodded,

“I shall have this. I will not be denied.”

Voldemort found himself smiling, warm satisfaction flowing through him to be not only the first man to breach that untouched arse, but the one to give the boy that which he’d craved and denied himself. It filled a need in Voldemort so deep he hadn’t known it existed.

He’d been patient, but he needed to touch. The boy’s prick had flagged somewhat. Voldemort poured oil into his palm and smoothed it over the shaft, gratified by the clench of the boy’s arse, his long moan, and the way his cock responded almost immediately, swelling back up. Voldemort stroked him and ran his right hand up and down the boy’s side, then over his nipples, tweaking them, teasing.

“You’ve imagined this before? Being penetrated by a man’s cock?”

His emerald green eyes were dark with lust, feverish and bold.

“Oh yes.”

Voldemort took the boy’s hips and thrust up sharply. The boy threw his head back, arching like a bow, crying out, little sounds falling from his open lips, a desperate, heady song. It reverberated deeply through Voldemort, and he dedicated himself to seeing the boy go utterly to pieces on his prick. Trying to find just the right spot, Voldemort experimented until he brushed the swollen nub perfectly, and the boy nearly snapped in half, whipping forward to lean over him.

“Oh God, that’s… You’re so deep.”

Thighs flexing, the boy thrust down, his tight arse like heaven. His hands lay flat on Voldemort’s chest, fingers digging in for purchase as he moved in a jerky rhythm, struggling to find that spot inside him on every stroke. He panted so prettily, raven black hair damp and curling around his forehead, emerald green eyes bright with discovery and lust, little whines escaping his pink mouth:

“Oh, oh, yes.”

The ten points of pressure from the boy’s fingers might actually bruise, new dark spots amid the lines of his tattoo, but the hint of pain sent fire to Voldemort’s balls. The boy was wild and free on top of him, eyes shut as he moved himself fiercely.

Voldemort reached up to cup his cheek, needing to see his eyes again, swallowing his own gasp when the boy looked down at him with pure pleasure and reckless abandon, fearless as he took what he wanted.

The boy was supposed to be the prisoner, yet Voldemort was ensnared, powerless to deny him anything, a fishing boat caught in a frigate’s churning wake, swept up and only able to hold on.

“Oh, oh, I need…”

The boy slammed down, wincing. Voldemort burned to give him that release. The boy’s dripping cock was flushed a deep red, the hood pulled back. Voldemort swiped a thumb over the head, then gave it a swift, commanding stroke from root to tip. On the third pass, the boy cried out, splashing Voldemort’s chest, his arse gripping so sweetly, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy.

As the boy trembled, Voldemort thrust up into his clinging heat with powerful motions, unable to contain himself a moment longer. The boy’s eyes shot open, a cry on his lips as another spurt of cum splatted on Voldemort’s chest.

He clamped down, and that was all it took to unleash Voldemort’s release, wildfire sweeping from bow to stern and back again as he emptied himself, their eyes locked together. Voldemort barely managed to clench his jaw and choke down his shout.

“God in heaven,”

The boy muttered, head dropping, his arms going slack where he still braced himself, fingers that had dug into Voldemort’s flesh relaxing.

“I’d say this is more the devil’s arena,”

Voldemort drawled, his attempt at a joke sounding hollow. Indeed, the boy ignored it. Voldemort had to pry himself free and regain his senses, but he still held the boy’s slim hips.

Voldemort’s prick had begun to soften, resting inside the boy’s slick, well-used hole, where he’d been the first. Unlike his typical rushed encounters, he wasn’t yet ready to withdraw, instead reaching out to trace the edges of the boy’s swollen rim around him.

Chest rising and falling, the boy lifted his head. His glazed eyes met Voldemort’s, then lowered. He swallowed thickly, blinking as if he was coming back to himself after a fevered dream, and Voldemort dreaded seeing guilt furrow that brow once more. Why should their desires be deemed unworthy? Because England said so? To hell with England.

Voldemort lifted his thumb to press over the tiny divot in the boy’s chin, wondering if he’d been born with it or acquired it on some adventure, perhaps running or climbing trees. Their skin was slick with sweat where they pressed together, and Voldemort was struck by the urge to roll the boy under him and cover him from head to toe.

The boy swiped at his seed, only succeeding in making the mess worse, matting together the hair on Voldemort’s chest, tracing the edges of his tattoo,

“I’m sorry.”

His fingers shook as he tried to clean it up.

“There’s no shame in it.”

Voldemort captured the boy’s wrist and drew up his hand, sucking his fingers and the musky, tangy treat laced with the lingering mango juice as The boy watched with wide eyes,

“Harry.”

His gaze snapped up to Voldemort’s as Voldemort froze. Hoarsely, he added,

“My name, it’s…”

Voldemort roughly lifted him off not only his cock, but then shoved him from the bed entirely, plopping him on his feet. He swayed, and Voldemort held on a few moments longer before letting go. After all, it wouldn’t do to have his prize tumble over and crack his skull.

Forcing a wide yawn, he leaned over and plucked the boy’s linen drawers from where they’d been abandoned on the floor. With swift movements, he cleaned his prick and what he could of his chest, then tossed the sticky drawers at the boy, who was too dazed to catch them. The white cloth landed at his feet.

Although his heart thumped too quickly, Voldemort kept his tone even. Disinterested,

“There. Now you won’t die a virgin.”

He folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, willing his breathing back to normal. The ship’s sway usually lulled him to sleep almost instantly on the nights he wasn’t worrying over the men, or other ships, or weather, or cargo. Or being captured by the English. Or French. Or Spanish.

His limbs were loose, and he should have been able to drop off right away. There was no reason to wonder how the boy was feeling. Sure as hell no reason to worry. No reason to soothe him. Voldemort had given him what he wanted.

He’d taken what he wanted too. It had been too long since he’d lost himself in sex, and now he had. He’d buggered Albus Dumbledore’s only heir, adding another layer to his revenge.

That was the end of it.

Yet sleep was elusive as he listened to the boy retreat to the corner. Voldemort cracked his eyes to watch him clean himself, the guttering lamp casting jerky shadows. Taking the bucket Voldemort had once again allowed him, the boy splashed a bit of water on his soiled drawers, then reached behind himself, wincing.

Voldemort imagined how skilled the boy would grow, his nature passionate and curious. Oh, the things Voldemort could teach him…

Enough.

This had been a one-time indulgence. He’d marked Dumbledore’s heir, and even if the snake never knew, Voldemort would. Harry would…

No. His name didn’t matter. He was the boy. His bounty. His revenge. Nothing more.

Resolutely, he closed his eyes to the boy’s creamy skin and spent, sweaty limbs. Soon the lamp extinguished, and all was darkness. Two words echoed in his mind.

Never again.


	22. Chapter 22

_I’ve had sex with a man._

Well, to be accurate, he had done most of the work. He’d ridden the pirate king’s massive prick the way he imagined a whore would…wanton and desperate. Shameless.

The memory tightened his bollocks, his nipples tingling, stomach swooping. Curled on the floor, awful blanket kicked aside, he admitted the truth, if only to himself.

_I want to do it again. And again. And again._

He’d thought he’d known his body’s hunger…the shape and weight of it, its sharp edges and cavernous depth…but he’d only scratched the surface. Now that he’d had a cock inside him, the itch had burrowed deeper than he’d imagined possible. It burned in every inch of him.

Voldemort had left to go on deck, and in the dawn light, Harry poked around in nooks and crannies, opening drawers. Yet he found no mirror, the one Voldemort used apparently locked up with the weapons.

Harry laughed at himself for wondering if he’d somehow appear different. Standing by the bed, which was less luxurious than it looked…the mattress had been surprisingly hard beneath his knees…he reached out and ran a hand over the rumpled linens.

His belly swooped once more, skin flushing, even though a voice piped up to warn that he shouldn’t take any satisfaction in what had happened. Especially considering the kind of man Voldemort was. Harry’s hand faltered, his smile fading, shame creeping in on schedule.

It was folly to feel any kind of hurt at the way he’d been summarily dismissed. After Voldemort had ejected him from the bed, he’d returned to his place in the corner sticky with oil and seed. He’d cleaned himself, feeling sick to his stomach.

Yet when he’d woken, he’d wished the seed were still inside him, that he could feel the evidence between his fingertips, even though the swollen rawness of his arse reassured him that not a moment of it had been imagined. Now guilt and silly hope seesawed inside him like the rocking of the ship on the tide.

What had he thought? That sex would change anything about his circumstances…that Voldemort would hold him close like a lover? Kiss him?

This was the man who’d promised to gut him if Albus didn’t pay his ransom. As much as Harry tried not to dwell on that possible outcome, he couldn’t expect the fact that Voldemort had buggered him to change his fortunes.

And yet… Voldemort had been _inside_ him. He’d been gentle and encouraging. He’d watched Harry with something new in his brown eyes, an attentiveness like he’d really _seen_ Harry for the first time.

He’d confessed to sharing the same nature, and it still sent a thrill through Harry to know he wasn’t alone. He’d felt the throb of Voldemort’s prick in his very core, had been filled with his seed. He’d given Voldemort not only his trust, but his very _self_. Would Voldemort still be able to kill him if the time came?

Turning away from the bed, Harry huffed in frustration. He knew he shouldn’t make more of the sex than it was. They weren’t _lovers_. Voldemort had taken his pleasure as most men would when offered it. That he wasn’t brutal about it meant nothing.

Desire pulsed through him at the idea of being mastered, and Harry cursed his lust. Yet the thought remained: _I want to do it again._

If only he could speak to someone about it. He’d finally found a man like him, yet he was still alone. He’d fornicated, and it was _glorious_, and the idea of marrying Ginny Weasley was more unthinkable than ever. Should he even survive. Should his father pay the ransom.

_Will Voldemort really kill me?_

He thought of the hours and hours Voldemort had read aloud for his sake. The way he’d refuted that Harry was stupid. The fresh fruit he’d brought. Why these kindnesses if Voldemort truly was nothing more than a cold-blooded killer?

Hands jiggling, Harry paced around the cabin…back, forth, to, and fro…chest tight, breath short. He needed to _run,_ to feel the ground under his feet and wind in his ears, his mind clearing with every step, peace flowing with every inhalation, muscles burning wonderfully.

Warring thoughts slithered through him, too hard to catch: contrition, rebellion, grief, refusal. Trapped in the cursed cabin, he rushed to the windows and shoved one out, opening his mouth and breathing deep of the salty air, spray wetting his face as the ship crested a swell and rolled down it.

The water in the West Indies was a clear blue unlike any he’d ever seen, and he longed to go up on deck and look in all directions. In Hogsmeade, he’d been able to glimpse how the sand was almost white, and he ached to sink his feet into it and run for miles.

Of course, he’d been promised that, and Voldemort had gone back on his word. Harry shouldn’t believe a thing he said, no matter how many books he read aloud. No matter how tender his fingers had felt tracing the spot where their bodies were still joined after coupling.

The cabin door opened, and Harry’s foolish, foolish heart leapt. But when he turned, Voldemort didn’t meet his gaze. In fact, he didn’t look at him at all. He simply circled his desk, boots thudding, pulled out his chair, and opened his log.

He pushed up the flowing sleeves of his dark shirt, and soon the quill scratched the page. Harry moved back to stand near his corner. Then he crossed the cabin to the bookshelf and stood there.

Then back again. Then over by the bed, and finally right in front of the desk. There was no response from Voldemort. Not even a flicker of his eyes, or hesitation as he dipped his quill in the ink pot. Simply…nothing. As if Harry weren’t even present. As if he didn’t matter at all.

It shouldn’t have bothered him. He shouldn’t have permitted the well of pain to open and widen, but to be made invisible again after his desires were finally known…and shared…was unbearable. The words escaped before he could creep back to his corner,

“Am I really so beneath you?”

The damned quill finally stilled, and Voldemort peered up, not lifting his head.,

“If you think so.”

Harry couldn’t hold back the words,

“What am I supposed to think? How can I feel anything but brought low when you won’t even look at me?”

Voldemort sat back in the chair, brows drawn tight, a sneer on his lips. The carved serpent rose above his head, framing it like a dark crown,

“Why the hell should I care about how you feel?”

He pushed back the chair to stand and walked toward the door,

“You are a prisoner on a God-damned pirate ship. If you insist on being ashamed of taking pleasure where it can be found, that’s your choice…. your bloody problem.”

Harry stepped to the center of the cabin, legs trembling but fists clenched,

“You make me feel ashamed by…dismissing me thus. Pretending you don’t even see me. You’re a hypocrite.”

As if speaking to a small child, condescension dripping, Voldemort turned and said,

“You’re my prisoner, boy. You’re nothing. I claimed your virgin ass so I could take my pleasure and return you to your mentor defiled. There was no other meaning in it.”

Harry exclaimed,

“There, you see! ‘Defiled.’ Is that not designed to shame me? Your messages are mixed, sir.”

Jaw clenched, Voldemort barked,

“I’m not a gentleman. I do not owe you a thing. I am also not your bloody nursemaid, here to soothe your little hurts and rock you to sleep. I am not your beloved tutor. I am not a good man.”

He took a long-legged stride toward him. Then another. The edge of the desk jammed into Harry’s buttocks as he jerked back. He braced his hands behind him, fingers scrabbling over loose paper as Voldemort loomed.

“You said your legendarily kind and proper tutor taught you to wrestle. Tell me, did you yearn for him to bugger you?”

The breath whooshed from Harry’s lungs, his head spinning. He opened and closed his mouth mutely, and then Voldemort had his wrist, whipping him around and bending him over the desk, right arm twisted up behind him.


	23. Chapter 23

The edge of the desk jammed into Harry’s buttocks as he jerked back. He braced his hands behind him, fingers scrabbling over loose paper as Voldemort loomed,

“You said your legendarily kind and proper tutor taught you to wrestle. Tell me, did you yearn for him to bugger you?”

The breath whooshed from Harry’s lungs, his head spinning. He opened and closed his mouth mutely, and then Voldemort had his wrist, whipping him around and bending him over the desk, right arm twisted up behind him.

The heat of Voldemort’s body hovered over him, his breath gusting over Harry’s ear.

“When he _pinned_ you, did you want him to pull down your breeches?”

His hand snaked beneath Harry, tugging at the buttons. Cooler air caressed his skin as his breeches and linen drawers were yanked down to his knees. Harry’s heart galloped. With his other hand, Voldemort pressed Harry’s head down, the polished wood smooth against his left cheek,

“Did you want him to claim you?”

He gasped, lungs burning. The word escaped, a ragged whisper,

“Yes.”

Voldemort’s fingers splayed over the side of Harry’s face, thumb invading his mouth. The skin was rough and callused, and Harry sucked desperately, his cock rock-hard. He whimpered when Voldemort withdrew his hand.

“Did you even know what it was you wanted?”

Voldemort slid his wet thumb between Harry’s arse cheeks, pushing the tip into his hole. His right hand was still an iron band around Harry’s wrist.

As Voldemort stretched him with his thumb, Harry’s knees almost gave out,

“Yes. I knew how… I knew what I wanted.”

Voldemort groaned and mumbled something he couldn’t make out, and Harry went on,

“I wasn’t quite sure how it worked, but I…”

Voldemort shoved his thick thumb inside,

“_Wanted_?”

Swallowing a cry, Harry answered,

“Yes.”

His shoulder burned, twisted arm tingling.

“And now you know exactly what it is you want.”

He groaned.

“Yes,”

When Voldemort pulled his thumb free and released his wrist, Harry’s cheeks went hot. He was bent and displayed, breeches around his knees. He should push himself up and flee…not that he could go far. But he could tell Voldemort to go straight to the devil for manipulating him this way.

Yet he remained motionless, his arm still behind his back, legs spread, flushed cheek against the cool desk. He blinked at the bookcase, the titles on the spines too far away to read even if they didn’t confound him.

He wanted this. To hell with his pride. To hell with worrying about his fate or Voldemort’s role in it. No man truly knew what tomorrow would bring. Today Harry was _alive_, and he would get his pleasure as many times as he could.

God, he wanted to be mounted and pounded with the power of cannon fire until his teeth rattled, until he was bruised and spent. He whimpered,

“Please?”

For an awful, soul-crushing moment, he thought Voldemort would leave him hard and aching. Humiliated. Then the exotic scent of the oil they’d used the night before filled the air and fabric rustled.

Harry exhaled in relief, the thrilling edge of fear returning as Voldemort did, his rod thick, slick with oil, pressing against Harry’s entrance. Fingers dug into his arse cheeks, spreading him. Harry held his breath as Voldemort pushed just inside, prick like steel and too big.

But the knowledge that Voldemort was hard for _him_ set his head spinning with exhilaration and possibilities. Voldemort clearly wanted him, despite his transparent attempts at maintaining distance.

Could Harry make himself valuable enough to be spared if the time came? Could the tenuous, flickering connection between them be stoked into a fire with embers that never grew cold? If he could peel away Voldemort’s defences and reach the man beneath, could there be something _real_?

Harry’s hole already burned, sore and raw from the night before. But it mattered not…he wanted Voldemort inside him again more than anything. The pain somehow intensified the tight pull of pleasure in his groin. Voldemort took hold of his right hand where it was still folded against his lower back,

“Good boy.”

As pride swelled in Harry, Voldemort straightened his cramped, almost-numb arm, pinning it to the desk by his head, then doing the same with his left arm. Then Voldemort’s heat returned as he leaned over to speak in Harry’s ear,

“Tell me. What is it you want, boy?”

Harry could only rasp out,

“Your cock. All of it…”

Voldemort was barely inside him. He pushed another inch,

“Hmm…What do you want me to do with my cock?”

Harry gritted his teeth,

“Claim me with it, you bastard!”

Laughter booming, Voldemort thrust in to the hilt, driving the air out of him like a bellows. Pain flared, but as Voldemort thrust into him, the torment became exquisite. Harry was well and truly pinned, by his wrists and with Voldemort’s prick filling him.

It still didn’t seem possible something so big could fit, and he was undone by it, limbs jelly, everything in the world narrowed to the cock stretching him, the iron grips around his wrists, the warm blasts of Voldemort’s grunts. Harry moaned,

“Oh, yes. I have yearned for this so long.”

He realized some of the guttural noises he heard came from his own throat, his lips parted as Voldemort took him. He couldn’t move even if he wanted to, and the thought only made his balls tighten. His throbbing, leaking cock was pinned against the desk, rutting against the wood as Voldemort slammed into him. He begged.

“Please,”

Voldemort punctuated his question with an extra-vicious thrust,

“Would your good and proper tutor ever have given you what you needed? Would he fill you with his seed?”

Harry cried out,

“No! Only you.”

Voldemort leaned closer, his bulk dwarfing Harry. He pulled out almost all the way, then pushed in again with shallow strokes, angling until he brushed the spot that buckled Harry’s knees. Sparks exploded behind his eyes, white dots appearing as he cried out. With another few strokes Harry was spent, spurting and shaking, crying out loudly, pressed to the desk.

Voldemort began thrusting inside him powerfully again, their moans and groans the only sound in the creaking, swaying cabin. Harry cried along with him when Voldemort spilled inside. Panting in gusts over Harry’s neck, Voldemort rested his head, lips at the top of Harry’s spine.

Almost a kiss.

Harry murmured,

“Thank you,”

And the twin iron grips around his wrists went slack, Voldemort’s thumbs stroking the reddened skin. For all his insistence that Harry meant nothing…for all his bluster…he had fulfilled Harry’s wildest desires twice now.

He knew it was unwise in the extreme to underestimate his captor, to allow himself any complacency or sense of security. Yet with Voldemort still inside him, lips soft on the nape of his neck, he wondered anew where the masquerade truly ended and the man began…the man he’d glimpsed, who was capable of kindness.

The man who wouldn’t be able to harm him or Luna. Perhaps Harry was hopelessly naïve, but his instincts told him Voldemort wasn’t the villain he purported to be. The villain he _tried_ to be.

He squeezed his arse around Voldemort’s prick still deep inside him, and Voldemort moaned, his hand smoothing over Harry’s hair. Was sex always like this? Harry had no other experiences for comparison, and surely Voldemort had many. But did he always stay close afterward? His other hand was still over Harry’s on the desk, thumb stroking rhythmically.

Harry gasped when Voldemort pulled out, the sudden emptiness shocking, his thighs quivering. But Voldemort didn’t abandon him this time, and Harry’s heart sang with possibility.

Thick, callused fingers gently massaged his wrists as Voldemort muttered, still leaning over him, lips by Harry’s ear.

“Only me.”

A shiver skipped down Harry’s spine like a stone over a pond’s smooth surface.

_Only you._


	24. Chapter 24

“Oh! It’s raining.”

Voldemort glanced up from his chart, which he had been studying uselessly for almost an hour, trying, and bloody failing, not to be distracted by Harry…_The boy_…in the corner to his right. Rain showered the glass, and Voldemort grunted.

Naked from the waist up in only his breeches, the fastenings under his knees flapping, the boy rose and climbed onto the window seat. He pushed out the glass and curled his feet under him on the cushion, peering out, raindrops splattering his face.

Voldemort had awoken that morning with his prick achingly hard, eager for the boy’s tight arse, yearning to hear his moans and soft cries, to give him pleasure. Which was the very reason he’d forced himself up before the change of watch, while the boy slept on.

He’d only returned to his cabin mid-afternoon when Snape had grumbled he was wearing holes in the deck with his agitation. The boy had been exercising his arms, pressing up his weight and balancing on his toes, his bare torso glistening with sweat. His muscles had strained, and he’d grunted as he moved up and down.

Voldemort had almost retreated, his prick swelling. But why shouldn’t he spend the rest of the day comfortably in his cabin? Why should he be chased away by his prisoner? Or, more specifically, the hunger for him. It was a mistake to have indulged it, and now he would master it.

He’d sworn to himself he would _not_ have sex with the boy again. Would not allow himself to be baited into it as he had the previous day. He’d been doing so well ignoring him, but then the boy had challenged him…and Voldemort could admit to himself he had cause, that Voldemort had wielded shame as a weapon. That spirit fired Voldemort’s blood, how the boy hadn’t cowered and denied his own cravings but had submitted eagerly. Voldemort had lost all control and couldn’t seem to regret it.

But not today. He would prove he was the master not only of his prisoner but his own urges. He would _not_ have him. And so far, he hadn’t, though his prick stirred at the mere thought. He’d gone months with nothing, yet now he seethed with lust. Topping Harr…_The boy_, deflowering him, should have satisfied the itch. Banished it. Yet here it remained, insistent as a colony of ants.

The rain came harder now, and he rose to place a bucket on the floor by the port side where it tended to leak. The ship swayed in the waves; nothing alarming, the rain mostly coming straight down, winds manageable.

Back at his desk, he picked up his divider and calculated the distance between Godric’s Hollow and Hogsmeade, eyes on the chart. Still, for some unfathomable reason, he asked,

“Why did the Crown choose Godric’s Hollow for a new colony? It’s quite isolated.”

The boy replied

“I don’t know. The desire to add every bit of land to her empire, no matter where it sits?”

He sat back and wiped rain from his face. Voldemort huffed out a laugh despite himself,

“Sounds accurate.”

The boy stared out the window and spoke,

“If not for the grief it would cause Luna, I’d beg you to declare me dead once you have the ransom, then drop me off on some other island.”

He should nip this conversation in the bud. Yet he asked,

“What of your mentor?”

He fiddled with the divider. The boy was silent before sighing,

“It’s been years since I’ve seen him. I confess I haven’t missed him at all. Godric’s Hollow would be a much more attractive prospect if he wasn’t on it. I could run and swim and climb, and no one would call me a fool. Or if they did, I wouldn’t care. I’d assume an alias and learn to make an honest living. Carpentry, perhaps. Working the land, picking fruit. Anything in the open air.”

_Why am I asking these questions? Why do I want to hear more and more and more?_ He said, the words sneaking out, unsummoned and unwelcome,

“I see the merit in such a life,”

A mad urge to reassure rose in him. Why should he care about the boy’s discontent with his lot in a privileged life? It was ridiculous.

_Enough_.

“Why do they call you Lord Voldemort? It’s a very unusual name.”

Yet his tone didn’t possess the bite it should, and Har…_The boy _only chuckled.

“None of your bloody business.”

When he glanced over a minute later, the boy was leaning so far out…shapely backside in the air, knees coming up off the narrow window seat—that Voldemort’s heart skipped, and he found himself in the corner holding down the boy’s feet.

Face drenched, the boy looked back over his shoulder and grinned, a delighted laugh on his lips as he revelled in the downpour. There was no artifice there, his happiness in such a small thing as being rained on shining from him and capturing Voldemort in its rays like dust motes dancing in a shaft of sunlight.

He tried to discern the warmth flowing through him, an unfamiliar sensation that wasn’t lust or triumphant satisfaction. It was… Bloody Hell, he was charmed. He wrestled with the peculiar sensation, letting go of the boy and stepping back until he hit the corner of his desk, wood digging into his hip.

You make me feel young again.

Christ, it really was time for him to retire, as his brain had evidently become addled. Yet, in these dangerous waters, he found himself unable to retreat to shore. He wanted to see the world through the boy’s eyes. He wanted to be so…new. As the boy leaned back inside, twisting around on the window seat, his smile stuttered,

“What?”

He murmured,

“Such a simple pleasure, but it runs deep.”

He flushed, skin going red down his firm chest, which Voldemort had to stop ogling immediately. Har—The boy ran his fingers through his dark raven curling hair, exuberance disappearing,

“Well, I’m a simpleton. It stands to reason.”

Voldemort frowned,

“I’ve known my share of the slow-witted over the years. You are not among their number. Taking joy in the mundane is nothing if not wise. For what is life if not largely bloody mundane?”

A little smile, tentative like a bud poking through soil in spring, played on the boy’s lips,

“Says the pirate king.”

Voldemort turned away to lean over his desk, so he wouldn’t smile back,

“I’m sure you’ve seen for yourself that the ordinary is well at home here.”

The boy spoke casually,

“Yes, despite your flimflam. It seems piracy is an act of theatre as much as dastardly deeds.”

He admitted, needlessly moving the ink pot and quill on his desk from one side to the other, then back again,

“It is. We spread rumours of tyranny everywhere we go, its far easier being a pirate when most ships simply surrender upon spotting our flag.”

The bucket was filling with alarming rapidity, and he went to inspect the ceiling, which would have to be fixed. It was a good time for it, while they waited for their ransom. His gaze was drawn back to the boy, and a knot tightened in his gut.

The boy bit his lip, looking hopeful, and Voldemort narrowed his gaze before realizing what he wanted. Of course, Voldemort should deny him, yet he found himself sliding the bucket toward the boy with his boot and replacing it with a bowl.

There were a few cups of water in the bucket, enough to wash with, and from the corner of his eye, he could see the boy strip naked and splash himself before fetching a cloth that had been left in his corner. He hummed softly, standing by the window, pulling the material over his body. There was absolutely no reason Voldemort should cut him a sliver of soap, yet he did, keeping his eyes averted as he tossed it over, grunting in response to the boy’s delighted thanks.

After a few minutes had passed and Voldemort had thoroughly examined the port side of the cabin for any other leaks and found two, he turned back to find the boy still dragging the damn cloth across his wet skin, his gaze over his shoulder on Voldemort. Heat lashed through him like the rain beating the windows as the boy’s lips parted on a sigh.

The little bastard knew exactly what he was doing.

Voldemort could imagine his entrance was quite tender after how hard it had been taken Surely too tender to be breached once again so soon…not that Voldemort was entertaining such an idea, since he’d vowed not to stick his cock in that sweet arse again. Well, certainly not today, at any rate. His mind conjured up various exotic fantasies involving the boy and he nearly gave into temptation,

Enough!

He barked,

“Get your clothes back on,”

The boy blinked,

“You don’t want to…?”

In the silence that followed, he dropped his head and lunged for his shirt…Voldemort’s old white linen…holding it to him, clearly chastened.

“There’s work to be done.”

Voldemort slammed around in his desk drawers, gritting his teeth and willing his cock to deflate and the fire in his veins to be doused. The boy quickly tugged the shirt and his breeches over his wet skin, crossing his arms over his chest and returning to the corner. Voldemort found himself adding,

“Besides, you don’t want to go up on deck naked.”

Why he’d said it, he didn’t know. He shouldn’t want to ease the sting of rejection and offer a gift. But he had, and Harry…The boy’s head shot up, anticipation brightening his face. Voldemort had to look away, striding to the door.

“Come on, then. No talking to the men. No trickery.”

Up top, the crew paused in their work to stare at the boy, then each other, then Snape. As Voldemort glowered, they all bent to their tasks again. The boy tipped his head back, baring his throat as he opened his mouth and swallowed fresh, cool rainwater. It did nothing to ease Voldemort’s half-hard prick, but at least if they were on deck, he would not break his vow.

The boy’s white shirt clung to him, translucent in the rain, and Voldemort made himself no promises about tomorrow.


	25. Chapter 25

The deck was almost dry beneath his feet, the sun having reappeared in all its glory to banish the rain and clouds, and yet _he_ hadn't been banished to the cabin once more. Harry stayed by the port railing, out of the way, not breathing a word. It seemed that Voldemort had perhaps forgotten about him, and he was simultaneously grateful and resentful.

He'd felt so bold, taking off all his clothes and washing in front of Voldemort. Lingering over it, waiting for Voldemort to come to him, to take him again.

But he hadn't, and Harry's skin prickled as he shifted uncomfortably, wishing for the hundredth time he could run or swim and clear his head. Perhaps Voldemort had had his fill now, and Harry no longer tempted him.

He should be glad of it, but of course he despaired. How would he go without it now? Sin or no, he didn't care. He wanted Voldemort inside him again. He didn't care if it hurt…he'd take every bruise and ache to experience the release again, the sensation of _rightness,_ that he had finally become himself…_real…_in a way he couldn't explain.

Lord, how he wanted a kiss, to taste Voldemort's mouth and share his breath, feel his hands on him, be consumed by him…

The idea that Voldemort was no longer interested left him hollow with want. Which was daft, since, as a logical voice reminded him, Voldemort was a pirate. A pirate who had kidnapped him and threatened Luna most foully. A thief and killer who brought terror to the seas. Twice his age, if not more. The list of reasons Harry should cringe from his touch was extensive. Yet…

It had become intolerable to believe Voldemort would deliver on his promise to murder Harry or Luna if the ransom was not paid. Harry recognized that he might be deceiving himself in hoping Voldemort was a good man beneath his hard shell, but surely his odds of survival only increased the closer they grew.

So, what was the harm in believing there was more to Voldemort? If he was so cold-blooded that he could still follow through on those threats, Harry tormenting himself with worry would only make his last weeks unbearable and change nothing. Taking pleasure with Voldemort could only help his chances…and bring him satisfaction deeper than he'd known possible.

No, Harry would not allow Voldemort to keep him at arm's length. He refused.

He spied on Voldemort from time to time where the man stood at the helm or at the bow, occasionally conferring with Mr. Snape. The crew went about their tasks, and they really were just…men. Men with hopes and fears, who could be brutal, yes. But the workaday routine on the ship was much the same as it would be on a vessel under any flag.

The crew clearly respected Voldemort…and feared him, judging by the nervous glances shot his way after some sort of equipment was dropped and had to be repaired. He glowered, and Mr. Snape went over to give the men a talking-to.

Voldemort stood apart from his crew, and Harry supposed it was what men in power typically did. It seemed rather lonely. Pirates boasted of a brotherhood, but Voldemort didn't appear truly part of it.

A shriek split the air above, and Harry jerked his head back to see the lookout dangling from the mainsail rigging, arms flailing, one tangled foot all that stood between him and crashing too far to the deck.

Heart racing, Harry leapt onto the rope ladder, flying up it the way he'd once scaled the towering oak at the edge of Hogwarts' farthest meadow.

Shouts below blended into an indistinguishable din, fading as Harry focused on the terrified lookout, his screams like shattering glass. Squinting into the merciless sun, Harry climbed, willing the man to hold on just a few moments more…Hooking his arm through a rung, he stretched to the left,

"Grab my hand!"

The lookout reached for him wildly, face beet red beneath his beard, long, dark hair flapping in the breeze. His slick fingers slid past the tips of Harry's, and the poor man's ankle…holding up his entire weight where the line was twisted around it…was surely about to give way.

Harry leaned farther, muscles straining, left foot off the ladder now. His belly swooped and spun, his instincts howling to retreat to safety. Another few inches and he'd lose his grip, dooming them both. But as he met the man's terrified eyes, he couldn't abandon him.

"On three, you swing this way, and I'll lean out. One, two, three!"

Clutching the edge of the ladder with one hand and foot, Harry lunged as the lookout did, and their hands met firmly. Hauling the upside-down man closer, Harry got both his feet back on the ladder,

"Now untwist the rope from your ankle. Kick it free. I've got you."

_Please let me have him._

Panting, the man did as he was told. For a sickening thump of Harry's heart, he fell, their hands still clasped. But Harry held fast, ignoring an agonizing grind in his body, the man's entire weight jolting his shoulder…which screamed, although Harry did not, tasting blood where he bit his tongue.

_Don't let go! Come on!_

It was likely only seconds before the lookout got his feet on the ladder below Harry and let go of his hand to cling to the ropes, but a lifetime rushed by in a tangle of images…Luna's sunny smile; Mr. Black grasping his shoulder fondly; running across fields and swimming through clear summer lakes; Voldemort's soft brown eyes boring into him…

With a wretched sob, the lookout clambered down, clearly desperate to have solid wood beneath him. Harry followed, eager himself to be off the wavering rope.

On the deck, the lookout had crumpled to his knees, one man patting his shoulder and another handing him a measure of rum. The crew had of course all gathered, and one said,

"Are you part monkey, or what?"

Blinking, Harry realized the man was talking to him. He glanced around, finding all eyes looking his way, including Voldemort's. Voldemort stared at him with such intensity, nostrils flaring, that Harry found he couldn't speak. He shrugged, wincing as his left shoulder flared hot. Voldemort shouted,

"Mr. Ollivander! He's injured."

Harry's throat was dry as a desert, but he croaked,

"No, I'm fine."

Voldemort still watched him with a thunderous expression, hands fisting and unclenching,

"What the hell were you thinking? You have no business up there."

A voice called out, others joining in with their agreement,

"Saved Lestrange's life. I say he gets a round of rum tonight!"

Mr. Lestrange pushed to his feet, swaying, his face still alarmingly red, long, curly hair sweat-soaked. He stuck out his hand,

"Thank you. God bless you!"

Harry grasped his rough, sweaty palm, and a cry of "Huzzah!" went up among the men. Harry smiled, but it quickly vanished when he caught Voldemort's narrowed gaze again. Through a clenched jaw, Voldemort bit out,

"Mr. Ollivander, take him to my cabin and examine him fully."

More cries of "Huzzah!" echoed after Harry as he climbed down the ladder to the lower deck, the pain in his left shoulder intensifying with each step. Ollivander urged him to sit on the side of the bed. Cheeks hot as he remembered the filthy, _wonderful_ things he'd done on that surface, Harry did as he was bade. Voldemort marched in, demanding,

"Well?"

Ignoring him, Ollivander slipped on round glasses, then poked and prodded. When he rotated Harry's shoulder just so, Harry couldn't bite back a gasp, the joint on fire. Voldemort was suddenly right there, grasping Ollivander's arm as if he meant to toss him across the cabin. Voldemort growled,

"Don't hurt him more!"

Ollivander glanced down at his arm, where Voldemort's fingers dug in,

"I was merely assessing the scope of the injury. If you please, Captain?"

Voldemort released him,

"It's only that if he doesn't make it back to his mentor alive, all this will have been for nothing."

Ollivander turned back to Harry, his expression neutral aside from a tiny quirk to his eyebrow,

"Yes, well. It likely came very close to dislocating, but it's only a sprain. Hardly life-threatening, I assure you. I'll prepare a comfrey poultice to help with inflammation. Other than that, just rest it."

He gave Harry a kind smile,

"No more heroic rescues for a few days, hmm? Back in a tick."

Uncomfortable silence stretched as they waited. Voldemort stood at the stern window, facing out, his hands clasped behind his back, his long, legs parted slightly, boots planted. A striking, shadowy outline against the sun's rays.

"I'm sorry if I worried you."

Harry caught his breath. Had he said the words aloud? Indeed, he had, because Voldemort's spine stiffened. He growled,

"I worry about you getting yourself killed before I can exchange you for the money I'm owed. Nothing more."

Harry had heard it before, and there was no reason it should hurt now. Yet his chest tightened, throat too thick to reply even if he'd had a retort.

Still… Voldemort fidgeted with his hands, and soon started pacing, occasionally glancing at Harry and then jerking his head away and muttering to himself. It seemed an awful lot like worry from where Harry sat, and he bit back a smile.

Ollivander bustled in carrying a small mortar. He placed it at his feet and reached for the hem of Harry's shirt,

"Here, let's get this off."

Voldemort barked,

"That will be all. Return to your duties."

Ollivander pointed out,

"These _are_ my duties, Captain. But as you wish."

He nodded to the mortar.

"Spread it on several times a day. It'll stain the skin a bit brown, but it'll fade soon enough."

With that, he left, closing the cabin door behind him. Harry winced as he tugged at his hem, and a moment later Voldemort batted his hands away. He lifted his arms, shoulder protesting, and Voldemort peeled off the worn linen.

With one knee on the bed, Voldemort scooped up a handful of the poultice, which was a greenish gray and smelled vaguely of dried bread. Slowly, Voldemort tended to Harry's shoulder, massaging the remedy over the sore joint with a light touch. Though it was soothing, Harry's heart skipped, and he realized he wasn't breathing.

He took shallow sips of air, not wanting to betray his… What? Agitation? Excitement? No, that wasn't quite it, as his prick remained unmoved.

"There."

Voldemort stepped away, and Harry had to bite his lip to refrain from calling him back, eager for more of that calming touch. He jerked his gaze to the floor as Voldemort did return with a towel he spread on the mattress. He ordered.

"Rest,"

Harry stared up at him.

"You mean… Here?"

He huffed,

"Or the floor. I don't damn well care."

He stormed from the cabin, and Harry gingerly stretched out on the mattress. Compared to the floor, the hard, lumpy mattress was a soft, feather embrace. The motion of the ship lulled him to sleep, a voice in his mind whispering that perhaps Voldemort _did_, in fact, care.


	26. Chapter 26

"Huzzah!"

The men lifted their cups and drank to Harry yet again, and he gamely attempted another sip. The rum burned less now than it had when the evening started, and he was having trouble feeling his lips.

The ship rolled on another great wave, the wind having blown up suddenly as night closed in, rain clouds returning with a vengeance. Saliva flooded Harry's mouth, his stomach roiling.

Nott poured another round, the men laughing and boisterous, blithely unconcerned with the rough sea. Nearby, someone played a fiddle, and sometimes the men burst into sea shanties, their voices surprisingly tuneful.

Leaning a shoulder against the wall, Voldemort stood steady as a rock as they pitched to and fro. He'd had one drink, and one drink only, unless Harry had missed the others. He was certain he hadn't, since he'd kept an eye on the captain throughout the evening.

Voldemort watched from the shadows with an unreadable expression. Light from the swinging lanterns hanging from the ceiling caught the gold on Voldemort's belt and gleam in his ear.

Then his eyes locked on Harry's, the brown appearing almost black in the dim light of the forecastle. Harry swallowed, his head light, queasy excitement unfurling through him, making him feel like he was floating. The metal cup was thrust into his hand again, one of the men shouting,

"Down the hatch!"

Harry gamely choked it down, enjoying the camaraderie with the crew while he could. He wanted to prove he was man enough to keep pace with them…and that he was someone they liked too much to kill.

His stomach gurgling dangerously, they laughed and cheered him. But when his cup was refilled again, he could only take a sip, his head swimming. He pushed to his feet, shoulder throbbing, barely managing to step over the bench without tripping on his face. The ship rocked, and he held out his arms for balance, saliva rushing in his mouth. He swallowed a few times,

"I think I've had enough."

This garnered a roar of laughter from the men, and a smirk from Voldemort. Harry's stomach lurched and so did he, making for the entryway. This time, he would have stumbled flat out, but Voldemort was suddenly there, holding him by the arms, thankfully well below his sore shoulder.

Then Harry simply erupted…remnants of stew and what seemed to be an endless stream of liquid that was likely pure rum. Worse than that, it spewed all over Voldemort's shirt, trousers, and boots, splattering the polished leather and gold as Harry retched.

Coughing on the last bits of acid bile, he realized there was utter silence aside from the low howl of the wind, the men's mirth vanished. Harry's knees would have given out if not for the steel grip of Voldemort holding him up. Blinking at Voldemort's soiled shirt, Harry's face burned. He couldn't bring himself to raise his head to witness Voldemort's fury at the repulsive mess Harry had made all over him.

Light and dark blurred in a swirl of movement as he was spun around and marched out. Harry's feet barely skimmed the planks as Voldemort propelled him down the corridor. For a gut-wrenching moment, he feared he might be tossed overboard into the sea's black, endless depths, but then they were inside the cabin, door slamming behind them.

Blinking, Harry focused on the bookcases and swinging lantern. He could barely enjoy the relief of being safe before his guts lurched once more and he gagged, trying to keep it down. Voldemort released him, and Harry crumpled to his hands and knees.

Then a bucket was in front of him, and he heaved into it. He coughed and spat, his eyes watering, and thought perhaps being thrown overboard to meet his end might be preferable.

"That's it. Get it all out."

Harry tried to obey Voldemort's command, although it hadn't been spoken sharply, but in fact gently. After another minute of bringing up nothing more than drops, his empty stomach twisting fruitlessly, Harry sat back on his feet, pushing the bucket away feebly.

Eyes closed, he breathed as deeply as he could, his brain seeming to seesaw along with the ship's rocking. He'd conquered any seasickness after several days on the _Phoenix_ but hadn't contested with the demon rum.

He jerked as something pressed to his mouth, then swallowed gratefully when cool water passed his lips. Voldemort's voice was a low murmur,

"Slowly."

Taking little sips, Harry's heart seized when something passed over his head. Opening his eyes was too monumental a task, but he realized it was Voldemort's hand brushing back his sweat-damp hair. Not angrily or cruelly, but with infinite tenderness.

Then the hand and cup were taken away, and Harry choked back a whimper at the loss. Harry managed to pry his eyes open and crawl to his corner. His clothes had been splashed with vomit too, and he tugged at them hopelessly before giving up.

He had to sleep, and had only just curled into a ball when Voldemort tugged on his legs for some unfathomable reason. He tried to kick, but it was no use. Then he was lifted to his bare feet. The world spun mercilessly, and he glimpsed Voldemort's face…still not angry, but soft and patient…before closing his eyes once more. He shivered as cool air flowed over his flesh, his soiled clothing stripped away until he was naked.

Thick bands of warm steel lifted him under his back and knees, and he registered that Voldemort was carrying him like a maiden who had swooned. He should protest, but instead buried his face in Voldemort's bare neck, realizing Voldemort must have stripped off his own ruined clothing as well.

The hard bed was luxury once more, and he sank onto it gratefully. He mumbled about being lucky twice in a day as he settled, sighing as strong, gentle fingers smoothed more of the poultice onto his shoulder.

Though the ship still pitched and rolled, his head along with it, Harry curled on his good side, eager to escape into dreams, instincts telling him he was safe. Voldemort's warm body soon pressed close behind, enveloping, an anchor in the tempestuous night.


	27. Chapter 27

Clouds had evidently made way for the moon and stars, which would soon enough give quarter to the dawn. The blackness was now broken by pale silver that revealed the shape of the desk and carved chair, the bookcase and rolled charts, melted hunks of wax in the candelabra.

Voldemort's bed was still in shadow, and he needed to leave soon. He liked to be present for the changes of watch, to be with the men, to guide them if necessary, but usually to stand apart and observe.

He needed to dress and take to the main deck and issue whatever orders were necessary as another day approached. He needed to fulfil his duties as captain of _The Death Eater._

Yet for the moment, he found himself utterly content to be a mere man. A man more than satisfied to be cocooned in the darkness with…whom, exactly?

_My lover._

The traitorous words rang through him like the clang of the ship's bell, solid and true even as he listed dangerously, his equilibrium gone.

_My lover. Harry._

Despite the peril, Voldemort found he could no longer think of him another way. Not "The boy" not "the brat" not mere cargo to be ransomed. Oh, he was a prize, but of a very different sort.

Harry snorted and shifted onto his back with a murmur, his hand coming to rest over Voldemort's arm across his belly. Even in sleep, Harry beguiled him. The thought occurred once more that if it was all an act to gain Voldemort's favour, Harry belonged on London's stages.

Voldemort could just make out his parted lips in the dim light, and wondered what it would be like to taste them, to swallow Harry's sweet moans and sighs, plunder his mouth; claim him with his tongue as surely as he did with his prick.

Said prick swelled at the notion, pressing into Harry's hip. It had been years since he had kissed. There had been a few other men after Lucius, but only rough, quick tumbles, a means to an end. He'd found if he didn't know the man or care a damn about him, he'd rather achieve release without any further bother.

Now he thought of Harry on his knees for him, those pink lips stretched over his shaft, swallowing him guilelessly. This did nothing to abate his erection.

He'd sworn to himself that he wouldn't have sex with Harry again, but that had been yesterday. He hadn't sworn it today, which had barely begun and stretched out before them tantalizingly.

Closing his eyes, he turned his attention to the slap of waves against the hull and the swaying of the ship, much gentler now than it had been last night. They had dropped the sea anchor and only drifted slowly.

Would he miss being rocked to sleep if he did find a way to retire?

The sea had been his home now for many more years than the land, and he didn't think he could ever leave it entirely. Yes, an island would be perfect. A house within sight of the water, a fishing boat bleaching in the sun where the sand and grass met, out of the tide's reach.

He hadn't fished since he was a boy, and he'd like to learn again. Maybe he'd even climb a tree or two.

Images of Harry hanging from the rigging intruded, Voldemort's heart kicking up, abating his hardness. _Damn,_ the terror that had gripped him when Harry had clambered up with no thought to the danger had been…soul-shaking.

He'd climbed amazingly fast, stunning the crew, and even Voldemort for crucial moments. When Voldemort had leapt to follow, Snape had hauled him back down, shouting rightly that the extra motion would be more of a danger to Harry and Lestrange.

Harry had seemed only a speck in the sky, far beyond reach. The moment when Lestrange had been freed from the frayed footrope and swung onto the rigging ladder was seared in Voldemort's memory.

His mind substituted a different outcome wherein Lestrange's weight tore Harry loose and they plummeted to the deck, skulls cracking like eggs, blood and brains splattering the wood while Voldemort could only watch uselessly.

To have that light snuffed out, those emerald green eyes go distant and cold, to not have the opportunity to tell Harry… _What?_ Voldemort wasn't sure, a tumult of mixed emotions tormenting him.

How could he feel anything but contempt for Albus Dumbledore's heir? How could he want to hold him near and keep him safe? He should only care about the ransom, about revenge, yet…

Groaning, Harry stretched his arms overhead. When he winced, it drove all other thoughts from Voldemort's mind. Harry's eyes popped open, shining blearily in the hint of moonlight. Voldemort murmured,

"Careful. How does your shoulder feel this morning?"

Harry licked his dry lips, voice groggy,

"All right. Still sore, but not too bad. The surgeon knows what he's about."

Voldemort choked down the irrational stab of resentment directed toward good Mr. Ollivander. It was insane to have been _jealous_ of him trying to remove Harry's shirt. But the thought of any other man touching Harry sparked fire in his blood that drew his itchy fingers to his cutlass handle.

_What is this madness?_

Exhaling out the tension and managing an easy tone, Voldemort tapped Harry's head lightly.

"And how's this?"

Harry hummed,

"Mmm. Rather…heavy."

Voldemort chuckled,

"Have you ever had rum before?"

Harry muttered thoughtfully,

"No. Wine with late dinners, some scotch or port, but only to sip."

He patted him on the head,

"I thought as much. You handled it manfully. The men were impressed."

Harry grimaced,

"Until I spewed all over you. I'm so sorry."

He should feign the expected anger, but only shrugged,

"I've suffered worse."

He patted Voldemort's chest, apparently trying to find traces of the offending poultice,

"And now I've gotten that gunk all over you and your bed, haven't I? You should have left me in the corner."

Voldemort ignored that,

"No more heroics, and no more rum, or at least less of the latter."

Harry's hand still rested on his chest, caressing. Voldemort should roll away, find fresh clothes, clean his boots, and get on deck. Eight bells had already rung for the change of watch at four, then one bell half an hour later, then two after another thirty minutes, marking the progression of the watch.

Yet he found himself staring down at Harry, his own hand smoothing rhythmically down Harry's side and over his hip. Soon three bells would chime. Harry murmured.

"Do you like the men?"

Voldemort wasn't sure he'd heard the question correctly,

"Do I…like them?"

Harry nodded,

"Mmm. You don't seem to speak to them unless giving orders."

He thought a minute before speaking,

"I… Well, they are a necessity to operate a ship. I care for their futures, such as they may be. As long as they are loyal to me, I shall be to them."

Harry whispered,

"But not friends. Brothers."

He shook his head,

"Once, perhaps. But as captain, I must hold myself removed."

Snape was a friend…of a sort. Voldemort trusted him. Depended on him to keep the peace,

"As long as our goals are aligned, the men and I are in accord with one another. That's all that matters."

Harry mused,

"Sounds lonely."

Harry's fingertips teased the hair on Voldemort's chest before tracing up the vulnerable skin of his throat. When Voldemort swallowed, Harry's fingers charted the movement of his Adam's apple. His heart drummed so hard he was certain Harry could hear it.

Those clever fingers ghosted over his face…circling his mouth, following the slope of his nose, then seeking something by his temple, exploring until they found the raised skin of the jagged scar, following the old wound back and forth, back and forth.

Harry's bow lips were parted just a fraction, and it would be so easy to lean down and claim them. So easy to lose himself and discover what sweet noises he could coax using only his mouth…

_Enough!_


	28. Chapter 28

Harry's bow lips were parted just a fraction, and it would be so easy to lean down and claim them. So easy to lose himself and discover what sweet noises he could coax using only his mouth…

_Enough!_

Lungs seizing, he caught Harry's wrist, pressing it back to the mattress as Harry watched. Voldemort wouldn't kiss him…he'd already gone too far adrift, and time was running out.

He had to find his way back to the shore by the time they reached Godric's Hollow; by the time he would return Harry to the life he'd interrupted and collect his ransom. Harry couldn't be anything more to him than a means to an end.

_What if Dumbledore doesn't pay up? I've promised the men bloodshed if not. Sworn to murder Harry._

Voldemort shoved the worry aside, schooling his wayward mind and taking a long breath to calm the sudden gallop of his heart. Dumbledore would pay, Harry would return to his family unharmed, and that would be the end of it. In the meantime…

No, Voldemort wouldn't kiss him, but he'd put his lips to work. What was the harm? Had Harry ever experienced the hot slick of a mouth around his cock? Voldemort presumed not, since he'd said his prick was untouched by anything but his own hand.

Voldemort shifted on top of him, urging his legs apart to rest between them. Pressing his face to Harry's chest, he wasted no time and latched onto a nipple, pride surging at the shocked gasp. No, Voldemort wouldn't kiss him, but he would lay claim to this. Harry squirmed.

"Feels good. Oh, Lord."

Voldemort flicked his tongue against the nub of sensitive flesh,

"Only devils here."

Harry bucked, his swelling cock seeking friction. Voldemort chided, draping his arm over Harry's hips, just out of reach of his member,

"Patience. Not too much vigour. You're recuperating, remember?"

Harry moaned,

"This is good medicine for a headache."

Huffing out a laugh, Voldemort felt strangely light as he kissed and sucked, teasing Harry's nipples until any more might be painful. He smiled against Harry's belly, rubbing his chin over the soft skin with hard muscle beneath. That drew a ticklish giggle from Harry, and Voldemort couldn't remember the last time he'd had _fun_ when having sex. He explored Harry's navel, hoping to replicate the sound.

Their coupling had been intense and sometimes rough, and Voldemort found he relished this chance for soft touches and discovery, finding sensitive, secret places he wanted to caress instead of pummel.

When Voldemort swallowed the head of Harry's cock without warning, Harry's cry fairly rattled the windowpanes. The whole ship would hear in the quiet of night, and the thought made Voldemort queasy. This was between them. Private.

His arm was long enough that he could slap his hand over Harry's mouth, whispering,

"Let the bells wake the men."

As Voldemort sucked tightly from root to tip and back again, Harry panted against his palm in humid gusts. He had never tasted a throbbing prick, and he groaned around it before pulling off for a breath.

He nudged Harry's thighs with his head, and Harry spread them farther, bending his knees up. Voldemort told him,

"Such a good boy."

Harry whimpered against his hand, their eyes locking. Voldemort teased the slit of his prick with his tongue, and Harry gasped against his hand, eyes closing, eyelashes fanning over his cheeks.

From this vantage, the tiny divot in his chin was visible, and Voldemort shifted his hand to trace it with his thumb. Harry's moans and quivers made Voldemort's own cock throb against the mattress. He only had the chance to suck Harry's shaft one more time, swirling his tongue around the leaking head, before Harry spent. He flooded Voldemort's mouth, and it was salty with a hint of sweet, an earthy musk Voldemort swallowed like the finest wine, head spinning as if it were.

When he'd lapped Harry clean, he reached down to jerk his own cock roughly, knowing it wouldn't take long. But Harry stilled his arm.

"May I?"

Voldemort couldn't deny him that…or himself the pleasure, not when it was requested so politely, which made him smile against Harry's skin. But when Harry gritted his teeth, sucking in a breath as he tried to shift down into a suitable position, Voldemort stilled him.

Taking care not to jostle Harry's shoulder, Voldemort straddled his chest and fed him his cock, groaning as he sucked eagerly. His mouth was wet, and he sucked his cheeks in tight, sending shivers over Voldemort's skin, raising the hair on his arms.

Bracing himself with one hand on the wall, he rocked gently, and Harry matched his rhythm, a quick learner at this, like all physical things.

It was bright enough now through the stern windows that Voldemort could see his cock disappearing between Harry's pink lips. Harry licked and sucked industriously; sweat dampened his raven hair, curling it. Voldemort reached down with his free hand, brushing back the silky strands, smoothing them through his fingers.

Harry looked up at him, his mouth full of Voldemort's prick, eyes shining with a tender light, pure and deep. Voldemort's climax ripped through him, and he grunted as he spilled, snapping his jaw shut to prevent a shout of pure bliss.

He emptied in long, powerful pulses, and Harry gamely tried to swallow it all until he made a desperate sound in his throat, eyes wide.

Voldemort pulled out, the last spurts splashing on Harry's chin and flushed cheeks. Milky seed leaked from the corners of his mouth, and he swiped with his tongue as if determined to reclaim every drop. Voldemort's throat went dry, the urge to bend and taste himself on Harry's tongue thrumming through him.

Before he could do anything else foolish, Voldemort rolled onto his back, and Harry burrowed close after wiping his face. Of its own accord, Voldemort's arm snaked around Harry, careful of his shoulder.

As light pierced the horizon and threw a beam across the ceiling, Voldemort thought of his mythical dream island and fishing boat, his simple house and fruit trees to climb. And he thought of Harry racing up the branches with sunshine in his hair and laughter on the breeze, birds soaring overhead. Heart clenching so powerfully he shuddered, Voldemort struggled for air. Harry nuzzled his chest, warm and wonderfully limp.

"All right?"

Voldemort managed a grunt in the affirmative. He had to push him away. Had to regain control in the perilous current in which he'd allowed himself to be caught. He wanted to shove Harry aside and impose his will and return the world of _The Death Eater_ to its proper order. Instead, he held him close for just another minute or two, waiting for four bells.

Perhaps five.


	29. Chapter 29

"What the hell do you think you're doing with that?"

Harry looked up from the dagger he turned over in his hands. He sat perched cross-legged on Voldemort's too-hard bed, where he was trying to catch the cross breeze through the open stern windows,

"Thinking that I don't know how to use it. And I should learn."

Voldemort stood on the threshold, key in hand, dark sleeves rolled to his elbows, sweat glistening in the hollow of his exposed throat. The gold-tipped boots were on his feet, even though the day was sticky and hot.

He closed the door with his foot, then looked to the open chest on the floor. Then back again at Harry, his expression hardening,

"I did not leave that unlocked."

Harry spoke thoughtfully,

"No. I worked out how to pick it."

He nodded to the desk as he scratched at his bare chest. He hadn't bothered putting his shirt back on after applying the poultice to his shoulder, which was much improved,

"Found a pin in there."

He stared hard at him,

"A pin? From what?"

Harry shrugged,

"No idea. But eventually I poked it in the lock just the right way, and it opened."

Voldemort's eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline,

"And you're just…_telling_ me all this?"

He glanced at the door.

"Do I have to set up a barricade?"

Harry looked up then and then inquired,

"Where would I go? Aside from up on deck for air. Really, I'm freer in this room than I've ever been."

Voldemort set his hands on his hips.

"Is that so?"

Harry shrugged.

"It is. You see me as I am. A sodomite…A simpleton."

He growled,

"You're not…"

He pressed his lips into a thin line and strode to the chest to slam the lid, boots thudding. He didn't lock it,

"I should punish you for this. Cut off your rations for a day or two."

_But you won't._

Harry simply said,

"Hmm…"

Still weighing the dagger. For the past day and a half, since he'd gotten so spectacularly drunk and sick, Voldemort had pestered him to take enough water and eat.

At least the ship had taken on fresh food in Hogsmeade, although the stronger spices hadn't done his recovering stomach any favours. Eventually he'd had some lovely warm, clear broth that he suspected Voldemort had requested for him specially. Harry had also slept in Voldemort's bed again, instead of being banished to the corner. More than that, he'd slept nestled in Voldemort's arms even though they hadn't sought pleasure.

Part of Harry wanted to confront Voldemort and assert his flourishing belief that Voldemort wouldn't harm him, no matter what became of the ransom. That he wasn't a monster without feeling, and that he felt for Harry in particular. But he was leery of rupturing and unravelling the intimacy that grew between them like climbing vines, curling and seeking. He must wait until they were wound too tightly to deny,

"What are you smiling about?"

He said,

"Nothing,"

He didn't try to wipe away his grin,

"Will you teach me? How to use this?"

Voldemort snorted and opened his log with a sneer,

"So, you can gut me with it? I think not."

Harry laughed,

"Surely you don't imagine me _that_ quick of a study? Of course, I did win our bet about the knots. Speaking of wagers, I still haven't received my reward for correctly predicting you'd need stitches to close that wound."

Voldemort grumbled, dipping his quill in ink and bending his head to the pages,

"You'll get your run soon enough."

Harry asked hopefully,

"If I don't, will you suck my cock again in recompense?"

Voldemort jerked his head up, and then…_there._ Along with an incredulous laugh, Harry spied a true smile, twin creases in his cheeks, the wrinkles around his brown eyes fanning out, teeth gleaming white, but not with a feral edge. No, it was all gentle and genuine, and Harry imagined he was the only one gifted that sight. Voldemort's smile turned sly, one side of his mouth tugging up, his voice dropping,

"Did you like it?"

Harry nodded,

"You know I did."

His prick stirred at the memory of the wet, perfect pressure of Voldemort's mouth, lips and tongue teasing relentlessly. A torment he'd wanted never to end.

More than that, the sight of his cock disappearing between Voldemort's lips, being serviced in such a way…with tenderness and intensity, Voldemort's only goal seeming to be Harry's release…had been something he'd never dared dream of.

"Mmm."

Voldemort watched him, quill still in hand, dripping ink. Harry contemplated the question, then frowned,

"But honestly, who wouldn't?"

_There._ Another true smile graced Voldemort's face, his eyes fairly twinkling,

"Indeed."

Harry wanted to hold on to the smiles and collect each one like a magpie's baubles. Although these gifts were no mere trinkets.

"Can I suck you, then? Practice makes perfect, as my tutor always said."

But now Voldemort's expression darkened. He bit out,

"Useless prick should have taught you how to use that dagger."

He fiddled with something in his desk, head down,

"That's enough talk anyway. I have work to do."

Was that an odd jealousy of Mr. Black? Harry hid his smile,

"So… You don't want me on my knees for you? I really would like to taste cock again. If you're not interested, should I find a volunteer amongst the crew?"

Harry fought a victorious grin as Voldemort snapped and shot him a glare.

"I don't bloody think so,"

How he ached not only to taste Voldemort but undo him. Voldemort had been in control, as always, when he'd claimed Harry's mouth, and Harry wanted to have him moaning and at his mercy. He tried a brazen tone and playful wink,

"It would only be for the sake of practice, of course. If you're otherwise engaged."

Voldemort grumbled,

"I don't think your cock-sucking skills will be much use with your betrothed."

Harry sat up straighter, all mirth vanished,

"What?"

He opened and closed his mouth,

"But… No. I shan't be marrying her now. It would be impossible."

He hadn't formulated the thought until that moment, but he recognized its truth.

Voldemort's head was still down as he rummaged around,

"No? Why not?"

"You know why."

The notion of marrying Ginny Weasley, of retreating once more and hiding not only his reading deficiencies but his very essence, sent cold dread down his spine despite the humidity.

Men were said to possess souls, and he had only just discovered his and given it weight and shape.

Voldemort frowned,

"Surely you understand that there are countless men like us who marry women and hide their nature. Countless women too, for that matter."

Holding the dagger, Harry imagined how it would feel slicing into his flesh. Possibly akin to the idea of living the rest of his life cloistered, his true self secreted away. His voice croaked as he said,

"Yes. I shall not be among them. I can't. I would turn to stone."

He drew a drop of blood from the tip of his first finger. It sat there on his skin, a perfect circle. Then he drew the blade down the pad, watching the crimson line blossom,

"What the hell are you doing?"

Voldemort was across the cabin in what seemed like a solitary bound, snatching the dagger away and taking Harry's wrist in an iron grip. He sucked Harry's finger into his mouth with hard pressure, looming above him where Harry still sat on the bed. Breath coming short, Harry said,

"You see? I need lessons."

Pulling out the finger with a pop, Voldemort closed his fist around it. He huffed,

"Not cutting yourself shouldn't have to be taught."

Harry lowered his gaze,

"I've always been a slow learner."

Voldemort watched him, eyes flashing,

"There are no words involved, so that excuse will not fly."

Harry mumbled,

"I was just…making sure I'm still real."

_Not stone. He sees me. He sees me as I truly am._

Voldemort's brow furrowed, and he squeezed Harry's finger tighter,

"I assure you, this is flesh in my grasp."

What would it be like to taste those lips, to steal a kiss and press close, to drink him in? Would he taste his blood on Voldemort's tongue? Voldemort was staring, so Harry cast about for something to say. He asked,

"Do you think that pirate will attack again?"

Voldemort's expression grew more perplexed,

"Perhaps. It's impossible to know."

Harry asked,

"Or the British or Spanish. What would happen to me if you and the crew were overrun?"

Voldemort spoke,

"We won't be."

Harry inquired,

"Still. I should know how to defend myself. If not on this ship, in the New World."

Voldemort sighed,

"Your father will have men, surely. You'll be quite safe."

Harry raised his head and declared,

"I won't be staying on Godric's Hollow. I've decided. I have to invent a new life."

He thought of Luna with a sharp pang. He'd miss her desperately, but she had Neville, and would soon have a child as well. He wondered for the hundredth time if she was safely at the colony and prayed she was. He cleared his throat,

"I won't follow blindly and obediently because the world tells me I must. If being kidnapped by pirates has taught me anything, it's that there is a world beyond my borders."

Sitting beside him with a soft grunt, still holding Harry's finger, Voldemort asked,

"Then what will you do?"

He frowned,

"I don't know." The knot in his stomach tightened, a hitch or perhaps a figure-eight,

"Run away, I suppose. Somewhere else in the colonies. Boston, perhaps? Or Carolina. I hope it will be easier for someone like me in the New World. What will you do? Once you've exchanged me for your ransom?"

_Will you let me go? Do I mean anything to you, or is it all in my mind?_

The notion that he and Voldemort would part clawed deeper at Harry than he would have thought possible. This man had kidnapped him, threatened him, and yet here he sat staunching the flow of Harry's blood even though the cut was nothing of concern.

Harry truly had seen beyond his borders for the first time, and he couldn't go back to his former life. What about Voldemort? Was he satisfied with a pirate's uncertain, brutish existence? Harry thought not. He suspected that Lord Voldemort wasn't at all the man he purported to be.

Rubbing his chin with his free hand, Voldemort stared into the distance through the stern windows. Harry prompted,

"Will you continue to haunt the shipping lanes, relieving merchant ships of their cargo? Evading the navy? The noose?"

Voldemort exhaled, loosening his tight grip on Harry's finger but still holding on, although the blood had surely stopped,

"Perhaps it will be the end of Lord Voldemort once I have my bounty. I could find a quiet island. Build a home strong enough to withstand the summer storms. Fish and farm. Stay close to a safe harbour."

His words seemed the bare truth, and Harry held his breath, afraid to move an inch and shatter the spell.

Blinking after a few moments of silence, Voldemort sat up ramrod straight, looking to Harry as if he'd forgotten he was there. Then Voldemort stood, his hand going to his lower back as he stretched it.

"That's nonsense, of course. Pirates find their fate on the gallows, or in the deep."

He handed over the dagger,

"Come. On your feet."

Heart leaping, Harry hopped up. Voldemort came behind him and said,

"First thing to learn is the proper grip."

He covered Harry's hand with his own, moulding his fingers just so around the dagger's handle before releasing him,

"Now, what would you do, if your attacker approached from behind?"

Elbow pinned to his side, Harry tried to bend his arm around, but of course it was useless. With one hand on Harry's hip to still him, Voldemort covered his hand on the dagger again,

"So here you must change your grip."

Harry watched as Voldemort rearranged his fingers, turning the dagger toward Harry's wrist. He leaned back into the wall of Voldemort's chest, warmth spreading in his own. Voldemort said,

"There. Now, as we go, remember what you know from your wrestling lessons."

Harry grinned,

"That I'm a sodomite who yearns to be claimed by men?"

The huff of Voldemort's laughter wafted through Harry's hair, sending a shiver down his spine. Voldemort swatted his hip, and Harry's grin widened,

"Oh, you mean the machinations of the sport. All right then."

He ducked and spun, using the element of surprise to try to send Voldemort off balance. Voldemort stumbled, a feral light in his eyes as he righted himself,

"Let's begin."


	30. Chapter 30

Voldemort took him through grips and slicing techniques, and they circled each other, Harry parrying and thrusting, dodging and weaving. Sweat glistened on their skin as time passed, bells chiming on deck, the ship rocking in rougher winds.

Their eyes were only for each other, and Harry listened avidly as Voldemort corrected his form. His shoulder throbbed, but he ignored it.

At least an hour had passed when Harry darted in with the blade, using his momentum to jerk away from it to hook his ankle and send him crashing to the floor.

On top, his left leg over Voldemort's thighs, Harry had the dagger in his right hand to Voldemort's throat. Although he knew Voldemort had the strength to lift him off and turn the tables in a heartbeat, he couldn't resist a victorious,

"A-ha!"

Voldemort let him have the win. He stayed put, chest rising and falling, both of them breathing heavily, hair damp. Without thought, Harry cupped his left hand over Voldemort's crotch and squeezed, the blade still at his throat. Voldemort laughed,

"Have you always been so bloody bold?"

Harry laughed,

"Lord, no. Not until I met you."

He squeezed again, feeling Voldemort's prick swell, his own still half-hard from the lesson. A low groan escaped Voldemort, and Harry worked him through the rough material of his trousers,

"May I suck you now?"

He inquired,

"Is that the prize you desire for your victory?"

He squeezed and rolled his hand over the growing bulge. He licked his lips, and Voldemort's hooded gaze followed the movement, cock jumping against Harry's palm, tenting his trousers. Harry said,

"Yes. I want to taste your prick. Get it good and wet, swallow it until it's as deep as it will go, until I can hardly breathe."

He rocked his erection against Voldemort's hip,

"Want to make you spend and drink it all down."

His hand trembled, the dagger's tip against Voldemort's skin, yet Voldemort didn't flinch. Harry could slit his throat, dig the blade into that vulnerable flesh, but Voldemort only watched him, arching his hips into Harry's touch.

The _trust_ stole Harry's breath, an answering impulse flowing through him. That this was the fierce, fearsome pirate who had swept aboard the _Phoenix_ and abducted him was difficult to believe. What a performance Voldemort had given.

Now that the shield was lowered, the layers of his disguise peeling away, Harry was determined to burrow deeper.

"Or maybe I won't let you come yet,"

Harry added, squeezing Voldemort's shaft,

"Maybe once your cock is good and wet, I'll ride it. Take every inch inside me so deeply I fear I might break."

Voldemort bucked his hips,

"Like the first time?"

Harry breathed,

"Yes."

He massaged Voldemort's prick, rutting against him. At this rate they were going to spend in their trousers. He leaned down and caught Voldemort's gold earring between his teeth, then his lips, sucking the whole earlobe into his mouth, tracing the gold square with his tongue.

Lips wet at Voldemort's ear, he whispered,

"Perhaps I'll go down on my hands and knees for you or bend over your desk. Or spread my hands on the hull, brace myself and take your cock like I was born for it."

Voldemort groaned, and Harry sat up just enough to see his face, Voldemort's lips parted and brown eyes dark with desire. Harry leaned closer, thrumming with the need to kiss him…to seal this mysterious power between them that was like the ocean's current, dragging them both under…

The knock preceded the door opening only by a moment, and Harry jerked his head up, staring uncomprehendingly at Mr. Snape, his brain still struck by the idea of kissing Voldemort until neither of them had breath, of rubbing his face against Voldemort's cheek until his skin burned, their tongues entwined, consuming. But Mr. Snape was drawing his pistol,

"You little bastard! Get off him!"

Clutching the warm handle of the forgotten dagger, Harry bolted up and scrambled back as Voldemort shouted,

"No!"

And rolled to his knees in front of him. Pistol outstretched, Mr. Snape stared at them, huffing and shaking his head when realization set in,

"Oh, for heaven's sake…"

He shoved the pistol back in his belt, lips a thin, grim line, his words clipped,

"If you can tear yourself away from our prisoner…Albus Dumbledore's brat, the rich, spoiled little shit whose only worth to us is a hundred thousand pounds…for a few moments, you're needed on deck. Captain."

Their arousal was obvious, and Harry shifted, panting. Voldemort stood and said evenly to Snape,

"Lead the way, Mr. Quartermaster."

Harry watched them go, his breath freezing painfully, the need to see Voldemort's face again…to be acknowledged—greater than his body's demand for air. Voldemort apparently didn't feel that tug, the current between them seeming to vanish easily for him, like the moon behind a bank of storm clouds.

Then Voldemort looked over his shoulder and grinned, his eyes crinkling, the creases in his flushed cheeks practically dimples. When the door closed, their footsteps fading, Harry could almost believe he'd imagined it. But no, it had been real, and it had been for his eyes only.

It was folly to chart Voldemort's smiles, trying to collect them for his own. Folly to crave Voldemort's caresses as much as the pounding of his cock, his soft chuckles as much as his fierce smirks.

Yet he couldn't resist, for in these glimpses Voldemort wasn't hard muscle and bone, but shifting sand to be moulded between Harry's toes.


	31. Chapter 31

At the bow, Harry stood by the fore-stay under an ink-blot sky. The swath of stars stretched out beyond him, and from Voldemort's perspective at the helm, it was as though Harry was sailing right through them.

There was a looseness in Harry's posture, his feet bare on the wet deck. One of his own too-big shirt billowed around him, untucked from his breeches, the knee fastenings undone.

When the rain came, Voldemort had brought Harry up, ignoring the sidelong glances of the crew, who appeared surprised Harry wasn't beaten black and blue after vomiting all over his boots several days earlier.

Said boots were soaked now, the damp leather chafing his feet. The wind and rain had pelted them, but only for a short time, the clouds clearing as the watch changed.

Voldemort had also ignored Snape's pointed glares and attempts to engage him in conversation. It was late now, the deck quiet. Voldemort had missed evening mess trying to avoid Snape but made sure Harry ate before he brought him up to the main deck.

It was time to sleep, but he did another round of the ship, ensuring everything was in order. There was no reason for concern, it shouldn't be…no sails spotted, the seas and wind calm now, no need to drop their sea anchor.

Although he should have been sleeping himself, Snape approached, trapping Voldemort on the port side near the stern. The breeze lifted strands of Snape's hair from his head,

"Captain. There's been a vote."

Voldemort's heart skipped, and he tensed from head to toes. He managed to keep his tone casual,

"I wasn't aware there was an issue."

If they voted him out as commander… He didn't know what the hell he would do, and what of Harry? No. This was his ship. He couldn't let it happen. _Wouldn't._

"The issue is the prisoner."

Snape cut a glance toward Harry, far out of hearing range at the bow,

"Lestrange made his case, and the men think he should be allowed up on deck during the day. Too hot now, being shut down there. He saved one of us, so they reckon he should get a taste of freedom."

Snape grimaced,

"Little do they know he's already had a taste of quite a few things in that cabin."

He insisted,

"It's nothing,"

Snape raised an eyebrow,

"Nothing? What do you call that scene I walked in on?"

He squared his shoulders,

"I call it none of your damn business. Since when do you barge into my cabin like that?"

Snape lowered his voice, hissing,

"Since you didn't come up for the change of watch like you always do. The men get antsy when there's an alteration in routine. Routine is what keeps us all alive and well and working in concert. And I had good reason to be concerned, given our prisoner had a bloody blade to your throat!"

Voldemort gritted his teeth,

"It was a lesson."

Snape narrowed his eyes,

"In what, exactly?"

He shrugged,

"Knife skills. He should know how to defend himself."

Snape blinked for a few moments, his eyebrows almost meeting the receding line of his hair,

"You think _our prisoner_ should know how to defend himself?"

He nodded,

"Not against us. For the future."

_What would that be? Would Harry really strike out on his own?_

"Since when do you care about that little brat's future beyond the prize he will attain for us?"

Clenching his fists against the urge to grab Snape by the collar and demand respect for Harry, Voldemort turned to the rail and gazed out at the horizon where the stars and sea became one.

Rubbing a weary hand over his face, Snape leaned on the rail beside him,

"It's one thing to have a bit of sport and bugger him…although I've never known you to care much for that."

It was true, and for a mad moment, Voldemort wanted to confess that he felt as though he was under some spell. That he couldn't get enough of Harry's touch, of his breathy moans and sheer delight in having sex. How his innocent passion made Voldemort feel young again…alive again.

The way Harry listened avidly when Voldemort read to him. The warmth of him curling near as they slept, Voldemort sharing his bed for the first time. Why shouldn't he have something good, even if it came from a most unexpected source? Even if it was for a brief flicker of time?

After a few moments, Snape added,

"And I'm sure you realize he's only bending over for you to save his skin."

A furious denial whipped through him, and Voldemort barely resisted the urge to slam his fist into Snape's face. He clenched his jaw and exhaled,

"Perhaps. It matters not. Why shouldn't I take my pleasure?"

Snape protested,

"Buggering the brat is one thing. It's another altogether to allow him any sort of advantage. To put yourself in danger. You can't trust him. You know that."

Intellectually, yes. Yet his soul protested. Voldemort couldn't explain it and didn't try. Finally, Snape sighed,

"Well, as I said…the motion has passed by a wide margin. They see it as only fair that the boy be allowed fresh air. I think I should suggest he take a hammock with us in the forecastle. I'll keep a close watch. It's not safe to have him in your cabin."

Voldemort gripped the rail, indignation rising,

"I haven't forced him, if that's what…"

Snape threw his hands up in the air,

"Not safe for _you_, for heaven's sake. The dagger was at _your_ throat, and while you may not see the danger, it is increasingly obvious to me."

He snapped,

"He's staying in my cabin until the ransom exchange."

As Snape opened his mouth, Voldemort bit out,

"End of discussion. Do your job and make sure the men don't get too attached. Or it will be harder when the time comes to hand him over."

Snape glared,

"Indeed, it will. Or when the time comes to kill him if his father doesn't pay."

Stomach knotting, bile in his throat, Voldemort eked out a nod, knowing without any doubt that Harry's death was not something he could perpetrate or allow. Still, he did not pretend they could have a future together; that was too fantastical a notion to entertain beyond daydreams. This madness was temporary, and Voldemort comforted himself with that. Snape said,

"I'll remind the men. And you'd do damn well to remember yourself."

He insisted,

"The money is what matters."

In the end, it had to be. That was the way of their world,

"Indeed it is. We could be chasing other prizes, and instead we're twiddling our thumbs. They all want their share of what you promised."

He looked to Harry, who had turned and watched them now. Had the wind carried snatches of their conversation? Snape added grimly,

"If the men don't get their prize, sentiment will only go so far."

Nodding, Voldemort faced the stern, his back to Harry's intent gaze. Snape took his leave below decks, and Voldemort pulled out his spyglass to survey the horizon and calm his racing heart. His view of the world at a remove was sharp as ever even though his mind was hopelessly muddled.

Snape was right. He should distance himself from Harry immediately. Sever whatever this strange tie between them was. Regain his bloody senses. Fine, so he wouldn't kill Harry. That didn't mean he had to allow himself to sink any deeper into the abyss.

"Captain?"

Voldemort lowered the glass to find a crewman named Peters a few feet away, a frown on his lined face,

"Anything amiss?"

"No."

Peters nodded, still clearly dubious, and went back to the rigging. Voldemort supposed it was uncommon for him to be up on deck so late. Usually he paced in the privacy of his cabin unless there was some problem.

It truly was time to go below. He needed sleep. Who knew what could appear on the horizon tomorrow? There was no reason to be hesitant and no reason to be concerned.


	32. Chapter 32

It truly was time to go below. He needed sleep. Who knew what could appear on the horizon tomorrow? There was no reason to be hesitant.

_What the hell am I afraid of?_

Striding to the bow, he took Harry's arm, pulling him to the ladder without explanation. Because Harry was his prisoner, and Voldemort was a _pirate_. No explanation was needed.

A lamp still burned low in the cabin, and after Voldemort bolted the door and turned, the yellow light flickered over Harry's bare skin as he stripped off his clothes. He should tell him to stop…tell him to go to the corner.

Yet he said no such thing as Harry sank to his knees, tugging on the laces of Voldemort's trousers and freeing his cock, pressing eager, open mouthed kisses to it and muttering,

"Finally."

All the blood rushed away from his head, he thumped against the door, biting back a groan as Harry swallowed him clumsily.

_This. This is what I'm afraid of._

It shouldn't have troubled him…being pleasured by his hostage, Harry submissive and naked at his feet. Why shouldn't he allow himself to enjoy it?

Why indeed?

Because his fingers threaded through Harry's raven black locks, which had curled even more after the rain. Because he didn't pull or plunder, only caressed as Harry sucked him, slurping and breathing hard through his nose, lips stretched, the vibration of his moans shuddering through him, making him painfully hard.

Because he loved the way he could see his prick pressing against the inside of Harry's cheek. Because he reached down to trace the bump of it, feeling unbearably tender.

Because a hook tugged in his chest, the urge to keep Harry safe and happy, away from his cursed mentor and anyone who would make him feel lesser for his pure and honest desires, for his struggles with words on a page.

_What devilry is this?_

Harry had eased back the foreskin, and now he sucked at the glistening head of Voldemort's shaft, hands sneaking into Voldemort's open trousers to caress bare flesh, eager and bold.

"You denied yourself this,"

Voldemort murmured. Harry met his gaze, emerald eyes big and dark in the flickering light. He went on, stroking Harry's head,

"You love it…having a cock in your mouth. My cock."

Nodding, Harry sucked harder, one hand circling the base where his lips couldn't quite reach without making him cough. He kept trying, seeming desperate to swallow Voldemort whole.

Eyes watering, he gagged and had to pull off. Voldemort petted his hair, then pulled down his own trousers so they pooled around his knees, the wooden door cool against his bare arse.

Quietly, he said,

"Take your finger in your mouth. Yes, that's it. Make it wet."

Voldemort watched as Harry obediently sucked on his index finger, spitting and letting saliva drip down onto his hand. Harry looked up at him with his finger between his lips, waiting, his chest rising and falling unevenly. So trusting. Voldemort had to touch him, and he traced the shell of Harry's ear, then spread his legs as much as he could with his trousers at his knees,

"Now suck me again, and push your finger inside me."

Eyes wide, Harry latched back onto Voldemort's prick, reaching his hand between Voldemort's legs to find his hole. He didn't hesitate, invading boldly, and Voldemort couldn't hold in his moan, his bollocks tightening as he clamped down on Harry's questing finger.

He'd never been breached before and this…this was out of this world. The wet suction of that ravenous mouth combined with the welcome pressure had Voldemort spurting without even being able to give warning, losing control. He held Harry's head as he emptied into him, Harry swallowing convulsively.

When Harry eased out his finger and sat back on his heels, a long, ropey strand of seed stretched between his swollen lips and Voldemort's prick. Voldemort's knees almost gave out, and he was unable to look away, sure it might be the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Although the lamp was almost out, the colours of Harry's body and face seemed vivid, as if the sun had suddenly beamed through the stern windows.

Breath short, sweat prickling his skin, Voldemort caught the strand on his finger and fed it to Harry, who licked thoroughly. Harry's cock strained red and hard, and Voldemort whispered,

"Bring yourself off."

Almost as if he'd forgotten about it, Harry looked down and took hold of his shaft, moaning and tipping forward to rest his head against Voldemort's hip as he jerked himself, his hand a blur. Voldemort stroked his hair, and it was no time at all until he spilled, soft cries escaping his red lips.

Breathing hard, Harry sat back on his heels again, peering up. Then Voldemort realized his boots were splashed with spend, white drops stark on the black leather, a bit right over the gold tip of his left boot.

He should have been angry at his prisoner for making a mess on his boots like that, but when Harry bit his lip, a saucy light in his eyes, Voldemort found he could only smile and brush his knuckles against Harry's heated cheek.

Then Harry bent and licked his boots clean of seed, and Voldemort groaned, sparks flaring through him like smouldering ashes in a grate poked back to life. He couldn't possibly get hard again so soon, but his balls twitched at the sweet submission.

Perhaps Harry knew precisely what he was doing and the effect it would have, but it seemed utterly open and sincere. When he sat back up, Voldemort brushed his damp hair, and the urge to protect him from those who would shame and belittle him thrummed with every heartbeat.

He pulled up his trousers, leaving them loose around his hips,

"Time for sleep."

He eased Harry to his feet, still careful of his shoulder, and when Harry turned to the corner, Voldemort tugged him to the bed and urged him onto it, trying to ignore how Harry's grateful smile wrapped around his heart and squeezed. Turning away before he could dig himself any deeper, Voldemort ordered,

"Sleep,"

and went to his desk, pulling out the chair, then fiddling with the contents of a drawer. He should shove Harry back into the corner. He needed to collect the ransom and put an end to this.

When the lamp had been extinguished for some time, Voldemort stripped off and lowered himself to the bed on his belly, not bothering with the sheet, which Harry hadn't pulled up either in the humid night.


	33. Chapter 33

When the lamp had been extinguished for some time, Voldemort stripped off and lowered himself to the bed on his belly, not bothering with the sheet, which Harry hadn't pulled up either in the humid night.

Keeping his head facing away from Harry, Voldemort glimpsed the blanket of stars through the stern windows, open to the night air. He listened to the slap of water against the hull as the ship rocked gently, Harry's soft, even breathing seemingly in rhythm with the sea.

A shiver skated down his spine, but it wasn't on account of the breeze. The mattress had shifted, and Harry's fingertips traced the long scars that snaked across Voldemort's buttocks. Back and forth, back and forth. Voldemort found himself answering the unasked question.

"The lash."

Harry pressed closer, his left leg sliding between Voldemort's. There seemed no sense of purpose to it other than closeness; Harry's cock was soft against Voldemort's thigh.

He should squirm away and put space between them instead of allowing this entanglement, but his limbs were heavy and warm, and the tickle of Harry's breath across his shoulder soothed as much as the ship's easy rocking. Harry asked.

"When?"

_Don't answer. Tell him to go to sleep or you'll put him back in the corner._

Heedless of his better judgment, Voldemort replied,

"I was a few years younger than you. On a Royal Navy frigate."

Harry's hand stilled for a moment before he continued his exploration of the scars,

"I can't imagine you my age. Or taking orders from anyone."

Voldemort had to smile, keeping his head turned toward the stern. Somehow if he didn't look at Harry, the talking seemed more…permissible,

"I didn't emerge from my mother's womb a pirate."

Harry's chuckle ghosted over Voldemort's skin,

"No, I suppose you didn't."

He still traced the scars,

"What was her name? Your mother."

"Merope"

He'd never thought of her but heard about her from the matron. Harry seemed to be waiting, and Voldemort found himself adding,

"She died upon my birth."

Harry murmured softly,

"I'm sorry. Your father? Was he a sailor?"

He shook his head,

"I never knew him. My father abandoned my mother when she was pregnant with me. I was brought up in an orphanage."

Harry was silent so he added,

"I hated it. The sea was so close I could smell it beyond the cliffs."

Harry finally spoke,

"Mmm. Was it in the West Country?"

Voldemort blinked in surprise,

"Near Plymouth. Cornwall, close to Devonshire."

"I thought I heard a hint of it in your voice. We once had some minor nobility from Plymouth for dinner. What was your favorite thing to do when you were a child."

"I sneaked out of the pasture to sit on the cliffs. I'd watch the water, fishing boats, and sometimes ships in the distance. I became adept at spotting sails on the horizon. Any flicker of movement, of…promise. It stood me in good stead once I was at sea."

Harry still smoothed his fingers over the scars, back and forth,

"And what is your true name?"

It was a name he hadn't spoken aloud in many years, and Voldemort's heart thumped. Perhaps he's hypnotizing me, he thought as the truth slithered up his tongue. He was only just able to swallow it down deep again.

He wondered what it would mean for his name to be on Harry's lips. Something unfurled in him, a dark knot that had been cinched tight. He wanted to hear it, but couldn't permit it.

Apparently letting that question go, Harry asked,

"How did you become a sailor."

Voldemort briefly closed his eyes to the distant stars, a shiver rippling through him. Perhaps he should close the window after all. Yet he didn't move, the warm weight of Harry's leg hooked over his like an anchor.

"I slipped down to the docks to go fishing. There was an old man who was happy to teach me in return for labor. Some nights, I'd climb out the window and steal away. The days at the orphanage were long, but I was young enough that excitement could fuel me instead of sleep."

"How young?"

"Fifteen. Depending on the tides, the fisherman went out in the darkness sometimes. It was past midnight when we returned to the harbor. I was wet and reeked of cod. I should have been more careful. Should have paid more heed as I made my way past the tavern. But I was thinking of the thrill of full nets, still tasting salt on my tongue, feeling the rock of the boat beneath me. They came upon me in an instant."

Harry's hand stilled again, now resting on his lower back,

"They?"

"Press gang."

Harry sucked in a breath,

"I've heard the tales."

"There were five of them with clubs."

Rough hands dragging him back to the docks, fetid breath, his bare feet barely touching the cobblestones as they bore him away from the orphanage and all he knew. Powerless,

"I tried to tell them I was a farmer, not a seaman, but of course all evidence pointed to the contrary. And I had no money to pay them off."

Harry whispered,

"They simply…took you?"

"The navy needs men. It's so vast it can't operate without impressment. They said it was my duty to serve king and country. Hauled me aboard the Leaside, and soon we were away. I was finally at sea."

Voldemort laughed derisively,

"I learned to be careful of wishes, lest they come true."

A lesson he still hadn't quite learned, it seemed.

"It's awful. Barbaric."

He sighed,

"I would have left one way or another. It wasn't for me, a normal life."

"I'm sorry."

Harry pressed his lips to Voldemort's shoulder. Holding his breath, Voldemort watched the stars shift as the ship rocked. Then he made his voice hard,

"Don't pity me too much. I kidnapped you, after all."

Harry's warm presence didn't waver, his hand still resting on Voldemort's backside,

"I suppose you did. I learned to be careful of what one wishes for as well."

Before Voldemort could wonder too much at what he meant, Harry asked,

"What was it like? Aboard the frigate?"

"Dank. Crowded. Freezing or sweltering, seemingly never anything in-between. Rations were hard biscuits, sometimes crawling with weevils. Salted meat. The officers ate better, of course."

"Of course."

"I was given the choice to 'volunteer' for service or remain a pressed man and get nothing. Volunteers were given two months' salary in advance to buy slops—clothing—from the ship's purser, and perhaps a hammock. Since I clearly had no choice, I agreed to volunteer. And I was promised more salary, but I barely saw a shilling. I probably should have refused their offer on moral grounds, but it seemed an exercise in futility that would harm me far more than them."

Lucius's voice echoed in his mind. "I ain't giving them the satisfaction." He had been stubborn and righteous, beautiful in his rebellion and rage. But he'd smiled so sweetly when Voldemort had offered to share his hammock one night, then every night following until…

Harry's hand stroked up and down his spine, and Voldemort realized he'd tensed from head to toe. Part of him wanted to shove Harry away and spring from the bed, escape up to the main deck and breathe the night air until he regained his senses and stopped this slow, steady loosening of truths.

Yet he couldn't seem to move, and he exhaled under Harry's caress, still keeping his head turned away as if that was some kind of protection. Harry said,

"I thought they couldn't take you if you were under eighteen."

"That's a fairly new amendment to the law. Then, there was no limit. And the Crown's rules on paper don't often matter a whit in the real world."

"What did you do aboard the ship?"

"Powder monkey at first—carried gun from the magazines to the artillery guns. I was still small, so I could get around well in tight spaces."

"You? Small?"

Voldemort found himself smiling.

"Again, I didn't emerge from the womb this way."

"What were your duties outside of battle?"

His right arm cramped where it was folded, Harry's weight against it where he pressed all along Voldemort's side. Yet Voldemort didn't shift to alleviate it.

"Hauled the lines. Manned the bilge pumps. Whatever menial tasks they ordered since they realized I was a landman after all. But I was eager to learn the ways of sailors. It wasn't the way I'd imagined, and the reality was stark compared to my boyhood fantasies of the sea's freedom. But I was determined to make the best of it. Better myself. They soon discovered I had the keen eye to be a lookout. Called me the little sea hawk."

Harry laughed softly,

"And you kept learning as the years passed?"

"One of the officers took an interest in me. A fatherly sort. Saw my potential, he told me. Eventually taught me to read as well."

Now, Voldemort closed his eyes to the memory of the man's neck impaled with wood, the deck having exploded with a direct hit, his eyes bugged out. Harry's feather touch returned to the faded scars across Voldemort's arse,

"What was your crime to suffer this?"

"Theft of rations."

Lucius had actually been the one to squirrel away the extra food, determined that they should desert as soon as they could and that they'd need their strength. He'd protested when Voldemort took the blame, but Voldemort couldn't bear the thought of that smooth, pale flesh being marred.

He went on,

"I was still young, so I was lucky. I had to kiss the gunner's daughter instead of being lashed to the grate on the main deck and having my back whipped. I was given the reduced cat—five tails instead of nine. But they gave me twenty strikes, to show the severity of my crime."

Harry gasped. Then he asked,

"Kiss the gunner's daughter?"

"Bent over a cannon so they could whip my arse. Arms straight out in front of me along the barrel, trousers down. The crew gathered around, especially the other boys, so they learned a lesson. The boatswain administered the punishment. It was humiliating, of course. I couldn't sit for a week. Could barely sleep."

Poor Lucius had tried everything to ease his pain, to little avail,

"They didn't intend for it to scar, but here we are."

"I wonder…"

Harry caressed the ridges.

Voldemort waited, gaze sweeping over the arc of Ursa Minor. Finally, he prompted,

"What?"

When Harry spoke, it was a whisper,

"I wonder what's wrong with me, that I enjoy such treatment."

Jolted by surprise and sudden fury snaking through him, Voldemort turned his head and shifted onto his left hip to face Harry, reaching for him,

"Was it your mentor? Did he often cane you?"

Harry blinked,

"No. No, I meant…the other day, bent over your desk."

His mouth went dry,

"Did I truly hurt you? I thought…"

Self-loathing burned a path through him like cheap rum.

"No, no."

Harry pressed his hand flat on Voldemort's chest,

"As I said, I liked it. But it's odd, isn't it? Wrong? I know I'm unnatural, but in this I seem doubly so."

Voldemort cupped his face, thumb brushing against the hair that struggled to grow on Harry's cheek.

"Would I not be wrong as well? Since I'm the one who restrained you and gained such pleasure from it?"

He curled his fingers in the hair scattered over Voldemort's tattoo,

"I don't know."

"It wasn't the same as the punishment I received. I took no pleasure from that. No pleasure was offered. What we did isn't the same. My sense was that you wished it. Had yearned for it. To be claimed that way. Mastered, but also…liberated."

Harry nodded,

"I did. I wanted it. I want it still."

He inched closer, emerald eyes gleaming in the faint moonlight, palm stroking Voldemort's chest, their legs tangled,

"I can't explain it, but I've craved it. To give myself over like that. You don't think it's wrong?"

"Not if permission is granted. Not if the desire is present in both parties, and I assure you it was."

Harry seemed to ponder that. Then he asked,

"When a man falls victim to impressment, how long is his service?"

"As long as they want it to be, I believe. I was on that frigate eight years."

"How did you get away?"

"We had a new captain. He was intolerable. Cruel and impervious to reason, and there are no votes on navy ships. Several of us conspired to desert. We decided that even if we ended up hung from the yardarm, it would be preferable."

"Did you ever go back to Plymouth?"

"Couldn't. As a deserter, it was too risky.

"So then you became a privateer?"

"Yes. I assumed a new identity and made my way to the New World. Found work aboard a privateer ship as a rigger and lookout. Worked my way up to boatswain. At least I had learned much in the navy. Eventually I won my own ship and hired a crew."

"What Christian name did you use as a privateer? Surely you weren't simply Voldemort."

His heart clenched. Tonight he was poking at that old wound like he was loosening a tooth, and the name caught in his throat,

"Lucius."

Harry seemed to know somehow,

"Who was he?"

And somehow, Voldemort answered,

"A friend. More than. He was pressed aboard the frigate as well. We were both young. He… He died in battle."

"I'm so sorry. Did you and he…"

"Yes. Strictly forbidden in the navy, but of course it happened. I think for many it was a matter of circumstance. Trapped at sea with other men for months on end, it came down to practicality. Most men needed release."

"But for you, it was more?"

Swallowing hard, he thought of Lucius's breathy whimpers in his ear, his hands urging,

"Yes."

His time with Lucius was so brief, hardly more than a blink when the hours of Voldemort's life would be tallied.

What will Harry amount to?

"And you never felt shame for it? For being a sinner?"

Voldemort smirked,

"I'm a sinner in many ways. It never bothered me. I once read that to fight against nature was a losing battle every time."

Harry frowned,

"You don't think it unnatural? What we do together?"

"How can it be? It feels right, doesn't it?"

A grin brightened Harry's sweet face,

"That's wonderful. Perhaps it all makes a curious sort of sense."

He curled a lock of Harry's hair around his finger,

"Indeed."

"Tell me more about how you, a legal privateer, became a captain of your own ship. You said there was a wager involved? And later you transformed into not only a mere pirate, but a king amongst them. How exactly?"

He scoffed,

"I'm no king. I've managed to cultivate a reputation, but I believe I've told you much of that has to do with planting the right stories in the right gullible ears in the right ports."

Harry murmured,

"Answer the questions anyway."

Although he was supposed to be the one giving orders, Voldemort obeyed,

"I got lucky one night playing at cards in Port Royal. A fool bet this ship. Thus, I became a captain. The Admiralty in Jamaica didn't look too closely into my details. The Crown was in great need of privateers to help battle the Spanish in the West Indies."

"So you were awarded a letter of marque and reprisal."

"Yes. I was authorized to capture enemy ships and bring them before the Admiralty Court. The Crown took a share of the prizes. It was regulated. Honorable, even. At least it seemed so to me. I was eager to serve my country."

He shook his head, remembering the strange sense of pride it gave him to be valued,

"I don't know why, given what she's done to me and others. Kidnapped her own men in the night, and worse than that, built the New World on the backs of slaves. Yet I still wanted to prove myself worthy."

Harry's sleepy smile was rueful.

"I certainly understand the sentiment."

He slid even closer, nuzzling Voldemort's throat.

"I take great pride in pleasing you. Proving myself."

Despite being directly compared to England and her depravity, warmth spread through Voldemort's chest, and he carded his fingers through Harry's hair. He was on such dangerous ground, supposedly the one in control yet helpless to disentangle himself, Harry safe in his arms as if he belonged there. Harry murmured.

"Then my mentor claimed you'd broken regulations and hadn't treated the Spanish captain properly. How could he just strip you of your letter of marque without a hearing?"

"Yes. He'd been appointed a judge. He had total power. In an instant, I was declared a pirate. I've heard of other privateers being similarly branded. If treaties are signed while privateers are still at sea, they can return to port having captured a ship of a nation that is no longer an enemy. No quarter is given, and the privateer is suddenly heading to the gallows, considered a pirate."

"It's so unfair. It doesn't make any sense."

"That's government for you. In your mentor's case, I think he was desperate to get a foothold in the New World. Rumor says he seized my prize to keep it for himself, that he and his cronies only gave a portion to the Crown and lied about the cargo."

Harry sighed,

"I can believe it. He has always had a thirst for power, which requires riches. Riches he feels are owed to him. He adopted me for the estate and modest wealth my parent's left, then squandered it."

"Fortunately, your mentor underestimated me and my crew. They freed me, and we made our escape."

"Now revenge is close at hand."

Harry burrowed nearer, pressing his lips to Voldemort's throat.

Voldemort wished he could see Harry's face and ask what he was thinking. Only days remained before the ransom exchange. Voldemort's gut seized, acid roiling. He wrapped Harry in his arms, and it seemed neither of them wanted to speak aloud the hard questions they should.

How had they entangled themselves so thoroughly in such a short time? What would happen if Albus Dumbledore didn't pay the ransom? Had they both gone mad to lower their defenses?

As much as Voldemort tried to deny it, this fragile, wonderful peace was merely the eye of the storm.


	34. Chapter 34

Voldemort's voice carried over the deck from where he stood at the bow, the sun at his back,

"We'll be going ashore for two nights."

The men cheered, and Harry grinned where he stood off to the side. He was grateful the men had voted to allow him up on deck, but aside from Mr. Lestrange, the crew largely kept their distance. Harry was still their prisoner, after all. Their chance at a windfall.

As the date of the ransom exchange neared, his worries increased. Taking a deep breath, he scolded himself to focus on each day in turn. Each hour, even each minute. It was all he could do.

He allowed himself another smile. If they were going ashore, he would finally have the chance to run. If Voldemort tried to renege on his prize again, Harry would raise holy hell. But he was confident Voldemort wouldn't go back on his word this time.

Harry had glimpsed white beaches in the distance and leafy trees far more exotic than those in England. Oh, how he longed to explore. Inhaling the salty air, he focused on how wondrous it would be to finally run for the first time in months. A hopeful voice called.

"Are we going to Hogsmeade?"

Mr. Snape answered,

"Do you still not have any bloody sense of where we are, Avery? We're many miles from Hogsmeade, you loggerhead. In fact, the closest port is Godric's Hollow, where we'll be heading immediately after this excursion."

Harry's stomach swooped, bumps rising on his skin as Snape's gaze came to rest on him as he added,

"The time is almost here to exchange our piece of loot for money in our hands."

Of course all eyes now cut to Harry, although Voldemort kept his gaze firmly ahead, his jaw tight and hands clasped behind his back, spine straight. The men closest to where Harry stood by the starboard rail edged away from him, even grateful Mr. Lestrange. Harry kept his gaze on his bare feet, sweat prickling his spine, the attention like needles.

Voldemort spoke as if the unfortunate Avery hadn't interrupted,

"We'll spot land any minute now. The island is out of the trade channels, big enough for our needs, and uninhabited. There should be crab, fish, and fruit."

He smirked,

"Of course we have brought a large store of rum."

After another cheer, he added,

"And quick as lightning, we'll be repairing the ship tomorrow. Careening what of her we can now that we've found a suitable beach."

A collective groan filled the air, and Snape held up his hands,

"It's no one's favorite task, but we all know it has to be done. Those barnacles on the hull slow us down. Our cargo holds are empty, so it'll be far less work to beach the ship. We made all the repairs we could inside after our skirmish with Grindelwald_,_ but some work needs to be done on land. And we want every knot of our speed to make off with our ransom from that scum Albus Dumbledore. Just think of the money you're soon to receive. You want to keep it, don't you? After we drop off the little lord, we must make haste and leave Godric's Hollow firmly behind us."

_Then what becomes of me?_

While the men went back to work and Voldemort conferred with Snape without glancing Harry's way, Harry remained at the rail and stared at the speck of land growing larger.

Soon the next land they approached would be Godric's Hollow, and the adventure would be over. His gut churned, melancholy thickening his throat and stealing his breath.

Assuming Dumbledore paid the ransom…and he refused to dwell on the idea that he wouldn't, banishing the flare of panic…He would have to find a way to leave the colony and build a new life.

Voldemort's confession that he wished to retire echoed in Harry's mind. He peered at Voldemort surveying the crew, pacing a few steps, then stopping, his hands clasped behind him, coat left in the cabin given the heat, dark sleeves rolled. His black trousers hugged his slim hips and muscular thighs, gold belt and tips of his boots gleaming.

Flushing, Harry remembered the taste when he'd licked those boots—his own salty, musky seed and an oak flavor that reminded him of dark red wine. He could scarcely believe it was all real and not some feverish imagining, that he'd lain with this man, fantasy made flesh.

Voldemort gazed out to the horizon, his face calm, poised and ready for whatever crossed their path. Would such a powerful man really be satisfied living a simple life by the sea instead of snared in its embrace, miles from anything?

Perhaps he would wish to share a life with Harry, and they could build a house somewhere, live simply and most of all _together_…

_No. Stop._

Marshaling his wayward mind…treacherous as ever…Harry forced away the vision of early morning fishing and picking fruit under the sun. He couldn't allow himself down such a dangerous path.

Voldemort was having sex with him and had shown kindness. More than that: compassion and care. He'd told him things perhaps he hadn't shared with any other person. And while Harry truly didn't believe Voldemort would harm him, he daren't expect their connection to become more, to last beyond his captivity. That was far too much to hope for, no matter how close they'd grown.

Wasn't it?

Surely they would soon part, and Harry would strike out for…somewhere. He would do…something. In the meantime, he would relish every touch he could coax from Voldemort, every confession, every smile. Hour by hour. Minute by minute, leaving the unknowable future in its place, beyond reach.


	35. Chapter 35

Under the faint light of the sliver of moon amid clouds, the beach stretched out in front of him, waves rolling over the sand. Behind Harry, men went about their work.

Some set up camp, others catching supper, and still others ferrying supplies from the ship, which was as close to shore as it could get, the sloop's shallow draft allowing it to bob in only eight feet of water, a hulking shadow at anchor that would be heaved over in the light of day.

Harry stared at the empty expanse before him, then turned to Voldemort, who watched him with a tiny smile before saying,

"Go on, then."

He didn't waste a moment, racing along the damp sand near the placid water's edge, delighting at the surf swirling around his ankles from time to time. He pumped his arms, breathing steadily, legs flexing, feet pushing off the sand. His heart thundered in the best way, reminding him he was wonderfully _alive_.

There was nothing but him and the beach, his body working, mind free and clear as if he were racing across a meadow at his estate at Hogwarts. His breath came shorter than usual after weeks cooped up, and his muscles burned more quickly. But he didn't hesitate as he blazed across the sand, determined to enjoy every moment to the fullest, no matter how hard he had to work for it.

He should likely have been more careful in the darkness, slowing to ensure he didn't trip and break his neck on an outcropping of rock, but there was only fine sand beneath his feet.

It was seemingly endless until the beach abruptly gave way to a slew of rocks and boulders at the end of the island. The only direction to go was back the way he came, unless he wanted to veer into the hulking shadow of the tropical forest.

He wasn't sure how far he'd gone, and he stopped at the edge of the nameless island, wonderfully _alone._ Inhaling deeply of the fresh air, sweet with tropical blooms and heavy with impending rain, he caught his breath before trotting back along the beach.

After a time, the moon disappeared, and he could barely make out the white crests of the waves as the wind increased. The crew's bonfire was faintly visible in the distance.

He stopped and tugged at his sweat-drenched shirt, peeling it over his head and tossing it behind him. The water was blissfully cool without being cold, and he waded in to his thighs, breeches clinging.

He was about to dive under when a voice called from the darkness,

"Wait!"

Splashing into the surf in his boots, Voldemort tugged Harry back onto dry sand. Harry laughed,

"Do you think I'm going to swim to freedom?"

A huff of breath,

"I think you're going to drown. There may not be low and high tides in this particular sea as such, but there are still bloody currents!"

It was too dark to clearly make out Voldemort's expression, but his concern was obvious. Voldemort's hand was still wrapped around Harry's upper arm, but not in a punishing grip, just a steady one, anchoring him.

_What if we_ could _have a future?_

Harry's head battled with his heart as the skies opened in a blink…fat, warm rain splatting down. He reminded himself: _Minute by minute. Enjoy every moment._

He laughed, pulling free of Voldemort's grasp and spinning with arms wide, head tipped back. He stripped off his breeches and drawers, needing to feel the rain everywhere, rivers over his skin.

It poured down. Dizzy, Harry stumbled to a stop, facing Voldemort.

"Isn't it glorious? I could die happy in a place like this."

Through the rain, the imagined weight of Voldemort's gaze was like a brand on Harry's flesh in the darkness. Naked, soaked to the skin, wild and free, Harry knew absolutely no shame.

Going closer, he glimpsed lust shining from Voldemort's eyes, and a wave of power swept through him, sending blood rushing to his cock. It swelled under Voldemort's watch, and Harry kept his arms at his sides, not hiding.

In the night, fully dressed in his dark shirt, trousers, and boots, Voldemort could have been a wraith, a demon. One of the horsemen of the apocalypse. Forbidding and unyielding.

A stallion.

"Will you claim me like this?"

Harry asked, unable—unwilling—to stop himself,

"Here. Right now. You still clothed, and me naked on my hands and knees. Will you take me…"

Voldemort strode forward, yanking at his belt and laces, and spun Harry around, shoving him to the sand. Harry arched his back, and with a groan, Voldemort pressed behind him. In another few moments, Voldemort had his hard cock in hand, spitting and pushing it into Harry's hole.

Harry cried out at the rough entry. He was sure he was being split in half, but he moaned,

"Don't stop. Harder."

Grunting, Voldemort clung to Harry's hips, claiming him in short strokes, not all the way inside yet. Harry spread his fingers in the wet sand, pushing back against Voldemort's prick.

The pain was part of it, and he wanted more. _Needed_ more. He looked back over his shoulder at Voldemort's grimace, his teeth clenched as he took him.

"All of it,"

Harry commanded, and when Voldemort's glazed eyes snapped to his, he implored,

"_Please_."

Hips stuttering, Voldemort growled, then pulled out and slammed all the way home. They both cried out, and Harry could only drop his head and take it greedily, the sharp burn laced with pleasure as Voldemort took him the way he needed.

Voldemort's hands curled over Harry's shoulders, digging in as he plowed him, the coarse fabric of his trousers rubbing against Harry's arse. Voldemort's hips drove as relentlessly as the rain, open belt slapping Harry's thigh.

His healing shoulder protested the rough treatment, but Harry didn't flinch away from Voldemort's grasp, desperate for more. The world narrowed as if seen through a spyglass, nothing else existing but Voldemort's prick inside, stretching him with punishing thrusts, their harsh panting echoed in the rain.

No matter how fine the sand had seemed between his toes earlier, it was coarse beneath his knees. When Voldemort slammed into just the right spot, Harry shouted, chanting nonsensical noises.

"Uh, uh, oh…."

He imagined how they must look, the pirate captain all in black, mounting his pale prisoner, giving him every inch of his massive prick,

"Harder,"

He pleaded, although in his hoarse voice it sounded like an order,

"Make me spend with your cock."

Grunting with each thrust, Voldemort pounded him, shifting his hips for the perfect angle and finding that secret, miraculous little nub inside. Harry cried out, his own cock straining, leaking in the night air. The pressure that had been building in his bollocks burst.

White stars exploded in Harry's vision, bliss so intense sweeping through him as he spent that it left a hollowed-out trail in its wake. He clamped down on Voldemort's prick, jerking, tipping his head back, lungs burning,

"Fill me. Only you."

With a shout, Voldemort did, fingers practically embedding in Harry's shoulders, his seed spilling so deep inside, Harry imagined it reached his very soul. The thought should have frightened him, but his balls drew up and spurted again, another few drops into the sand.

The rain hadn't eased, and Harry turned his head to catch a few drops on his tongue. His arms shook, every muscle in his body burning, and he dropped to his elbows, arse still up, Voldemort leaning over him. He knew it would hurt when Voldemort withdrew, and he braced himself when the fingers uncurled from his shoulders.

Yet Voldemort seemed in no rush, easing out his softening member inch by inch, one rough hand smoothing up and down Harry's spine. In his wake, Harry felt incredibly stretched and unbearably empty.

When Voldemort was free, Harry flopped on his belly with legs spread, grains of sand sticking everywhere, too drained to care. He folded his hands under his cheek and closed his eyes, waiting for Voldemort to tug him to his feet and back to the ship.

The rain eased slightly, still steady and cool on his fevered skin. Voldemort's callused palms caressed Harry's arse, then opened him to the rain, cleaning him with fingertips that were shockingly gentle after the fierceness of their coupling.

Then his tongue was there, textured and marvellous, against the bruised skin of his shoulder, a gasp on his lips, the wet sand too much against his soft, sensitive cock,

"You can't make me spend again…That's impossible…"

That was how he found himself on his back, wet sand in many crevices, the downpour fortunately washing much of it away. Voldemort cupped his hands to the rain, gathering water to rinse Harry's groin of any lingering sand.

He breathed hard between Harry's bent legs, staring down at him with carnal purpose, a devil's smile curving his full lips. Groaning again, Harry said,

"That wasn't a dare. Simply a statement of fact."

Voldemort closed one damp fist around Harry's shaft, his other hand reaching down to press just so against the sensitive skin behind his balls.

A lightning bolt of pleasure struck, stealing Harry's breath. His whimper trailed into a laugh,

"I bet you'll do anything to prove me wrong, won't you?"

The rain tapered off, stars shedding a little more light as the clouds dissipated. Voldemort laughed too, not a derisive bark or triumphant shout, but soft and true. His face was shockingly boyish, creased with his grin, hair plastered to his head and skin soaked.

He tracked his knuckles down Harry's cheek, then brushed them over his lips. Harry's heart hurtled back to a gallop as Voldemort leaned down, his expression unmistakably tender, eyes searching as though he could read some answer upon his face.

For a heart-stopping moment, Harry was sure Voldemort would kiss him. That he would press their lips together and share breath in an intimacy Harry imagined would be more profound than any of the sex they'd had.

Then the mask slipped back into place, and Voldemort's smile went positively feral.

Before Harry could hope to think of a response, Voldemort pulled Harry's arse up onto his thighs. He was splayed under the stars, writhing and utterly wanton for the world to see, Voldemort's head buried between his legs, licking and sucking his spent cock and balls mercilessly until he came with a shout…

It was one wager Harry was only too happy to lose.


	36. Chapter 36

So much cursed sand.

Even though Voldemort hadn't taken off his clothes, it had burrowed everywhere. Under the large canvas tent, he shifted on the scattered collection of pillows and blankets that made his bed. A table from the mess and his desk chair stood nearby.

Clad only in a too-big white shirt, Harry slept curled on his side with his back against Voldemort's chest, Voldemort's arm slung around him. The sides of the tent hung loose, flapping in the morning breeze, sunlight dancing in and making the tip of Harry's ear glow.

Voldemort didn't know what sorcery had taken hold of him, but beholding Harry in the rain, naked and beautiful with delight, lean muscles gleaming, he'd wanted to do _anything_ Harry asked. Anything to keep him so happy, so free.

Maybe he was a sea nymph, spinning some kind of magic. Although perhaps not, given how he'd splashed out without a thought to the currents, especially with the wind whipping.

Even now, Voldemort's heart skipped a beat as he imagined Harry disappearing under those dark waves and never resurfacing.

_What the hell was the matter with me?_

The chorus of "Heave!" as most of the crew hauled the ship onto her side filled the air. Voldemort glimpsed them as the tent flapped open, ropes taut as lines of men took turns pulling, the _Manta_'s hull being revealed to the merciless sun, a mess of barnacles evident along with boards that needed replacing and God knew what else.

He should be out there supervising, encouraging, lending a hand himself given their tight turnaround. He had a job to do, and it wasn't to stay secreted away in his tent with their prisoner in his arms.

But God, he just didn't _care_ anymore.

Part of him wished the men would take the ship and leave him and Harry be. For so many years, the sea had been his home, and he had no doubt now he'd had his fill. Snape had said he wouldn't be able to leave the pirate life behind, but Voldemort knew he must.

Perhaps he would fail miserably. Yet as he listened to the steady song of Harry's breath…felt its rise and fall, he wanted nothing more than to press his lips to Harry's shoulders…the world seemed full of possibility.

It was madness. He shouldn't care about anything but collecting the ransom in two days.

Tension gripped him, a shiver of fear slithering down his spine. He had to stay on task, especially when some of the men were growing restless. He'd been taking a walk, dawn not even a hint on the horizon, when he'd heard the voices. Voices not as hushed as they should have been thanks to the barrel of rum.

"_If you ask me, this ransom is a fool's errand. Captain's going to get us all killed for nothing."_

"_No one asked you, Peter"_

_A voice replied dryly. Sounded like the navigator, Avery, a lettered man who'd deserted the Royal Navy. Voldemort hadn't asked why._

"_Dumbledore might not even have the money."_

_Voldemort strained to hear, trying to place the voice. Ah yes, Fletcher, the newest, troublesome recruit. Fletcher went on,_

"_You heard the bitch say it, Peter. So, what happens if he still don't have it by the deadline? Then we've been sailin' around doing naught but wastin' our time when we could be waylayin' ships."_

Peter confirmed,

"_She did say it,"_

_Fletcher added,_

"_We all know the captain's sleepin' with that little fop."_

"_Can't blame him for that. Most of us would take a go at that sweet arse given half the chance."_

_Avery spoke up again._

"_Yet when was the last time the captain actually bedded anyone? It's not his usual way."_

_He paused,_

"_It's concerning, I'll grant that. This…playing at courtship."_

_Voldemort stood stock-still in the trees, the men's shadows barely visible on the edge of the beach. His heart thudded in his chest. Peter laughed,_

"_I heard he was dreaming about retiring and becoming a bloody farmer or the like."_

_A round of raucous laughter, and Voldemort stood there in the darkness feeling unbearably small. Who had Snape told? Or had someone overheard them? He supposed it was immaterial, yet it stung nonetheless._

_Peter added,_

"_A man like that? Can you imagine? Who the hell does he think he's kidding?"_

_Fletcher said,_

"_Seems clear t'me the captain's more interested in buggerin' that fancy arse and spinnin' fantasies than doin' what's best for the ship. For us. Is he even going to give the little brat up?"_

_Someone Voldemort couldn't place spoke,_

"_Potter did save Lestrange. He's not so bad."_

"_Yeah, and we's grateful,"_

_Fletcher said,_

"_Lettin' him up on the deck, not restrained nor nothin.' No offense to Lestrange, but is he worth your share of that ransom? We've been good to the __whelp. Left him alone and not laid a finger on him."_

_Peter replied,_

"_Cause you know the captain will have your bollocks for earrings if you even looked at the boy the wrong way."_

"_Exactly! Proves our point, don't it? Sure, there's keepin' the prize unsullied to make sure we get the ransom. But it's more than that. Cap'tn's not in his right head about this. You saw how he let Potter run off down the beach. His thinkin's…"_

_Avery suggested._

"_Compromised?"_

_Fletcher said,_

"_That's it. Compromised and the like. You've all been servin' under him too long. I see it clear."_

"_So what are you proposing?"_

_Avery asked,_

"_Mutiny?"_

_Voldemort's stomach clenched, his breath shallow. There were low murmurs, then Fletcher said,_

"_It ain't mutiny if we take a vote, is it? I thought pirate ships were all…what's the word?"_

"_Democratic,"_

_Avery answered, and Voldemort could imagine the roll of his eyes,_

"_Yes, but you weren't with us when Albus Dumbledore cheated us. We followed England's rules to the letter, and he lied and declared us pirates. We would have all likely swung for it if we hadn't taken them by surprise. They underestimated us…especially the captain. That is a deep wound. He wants his revenge against Dumbledore, no matter how infatuated he might find himself with the man's pretty heir."_

_Peter said,_

"_Tis true. Underestimate Captain Voldemort at yer own peril. We got to be smart about this."_

_Fletcher insisted,_

"_All I'm sayin' is that we make sure we get what's owed us. If it weren't for me, he might never have known who the little shit was."_

_A nameless voice said,_

"_There's no way the captain will give up that ransom or spitting in Dumbledore's face. No arse is that sweet. He's getting it while the getting's good, and like we said, who can blame him? But if Dumbledore doesn't have the money, Captain Voldemort will cut that boy into pieces and deliver them to his mentor one by one."_

_Voldemort tasted bile, reaching out to grip the rough bark of a tree as the men went on._

"_Probably the ears first. Maybe lips."_

"_Fingers."_

"_Then his prick."_

_Fletcher said,_

"_But will he? I don't reckon there's as much call to fear him as you think. He's grown weak. Don't have his priorities straight from where I'm sittin."_

Voldemort tightened his arm around Harry, who murmured and shifted in his sleep. He'd wanted to stride onto the beach, draw his cutlass and slice them to pieces for the birds and insects to swarm. Especially Fletcher, whose tongue Voldemort would take great pleasure in ripping from his big mouth.

But the truth of it was they were right. His thinking was compromised by his prick. No, far worse than that…by soft, tender places within that he hadn't unearthed in years; hadn't known still existed.

He'd allowed Harry to dig away at him, shifting sands grain by grain until he was laid bare.

His lips brushed the knots of Harry's spine, heart warming at the whisper of his sleepy sigh. The entrance to the tent flapped up in a gust of wind, and across the beach, Voldemort spotted a cluster of men speaking, Fletcher among them. They glanced back at the tent, and Voldemort wasn't sure if it was too bright out there to see in. To see him holding their prisoner in his arms.

Enough.

Time to put a stop to it. Closing his eyes, he thought of Albus Dumbledore and that day at the Admiralty Court when Voldemort had stood in disbelief as he was branded a pirate after so many years in faithful service to the Crown.

He pressed at the wound that had festered ever since, calling on his fury. Yes, he would have his revenge and his ransom. If not, he would lose control of his ship. Worse than that, if the men determined he'd been acting against their interests, he could be put to death. He'd seen crews turn, and it could happen in a blink. How had he let himself drift so far off course?

Snape's words echoed through his head,

"_Sentiment will only go so far."_

And it had gone more than far enough. Rolling away and grabbing his boots, he tugged one on.

A sleepy voice murmured,

"Tell me you aren't really going to wear those boots. We'll be on the beach all day. The men will still respect you, you know."

Harry remained curled away on his side, unable to see what Voldemort was doing.

_Christ. Did he know him so well already? How did he allow this to happen?_

Harry was probably right. Voldemort likely didn't have to dress the part. But he pulled on the other boot anyway, his feet already protesting in the damp, musty leather that would soon be like two ovens. He couldn't take Harry's counsel. He had to put an end to this unwanted attraction that stirred far too much.

Soon he would exchange Harry for the money and never see him again. That was the plan. That was how it would be. Except Harry insisted he would forge a new life for himself.

Maybe…

Harry laughed softly, and from the corner of his eye, Voldemort watched as he pushed himself up and inhaled sharply. Voldemort had already asked,

"What?"

And taken hold of Harry's shoulders before he could think twice. Gasping, Harry shrugged and squirmed away, leaning his hands on the tangled, sandy blanket.

Voldemort tugged the collar of Harry's worn shirt to the side, taking in the finger-shaped bruises. Guilt stabbed, razor-sharp and jagged. And never mind his shoulders…Voldemort could imagine how tender Harry's arse was after what they'd done without oil and in the sand. Before he could say a thing, Harry did.

"It's not your fault. I asked you to. I wanted it like that."

True, but… Voldemort cleared his throat,

"Do you need Ollivander?"

Harry glanced over his shoulder, rolling his eyes,

"For a few bruises? I'm confident I'll survive."

"Are you sure it's only bruising?"

Harry shifted gingerly, coming around to sit. He smiled softly,

"I believe so. If I discover otherwise, I'll tell you."

Frowning, Voldemort folded his arms and considered shouting for Ollivander anyway,

"If there's tearing…"

"I'm fine."

He placed his hand, warm and gentle, on Voldemort's bare forearm where the sleeves were rolled up, his thumb stroking,

"Don't worry."

And _hell_, it was too much to take…the easy familiarity, the way Harry scratched his chest absently with his other hand, yawning, as if this were a lazy morning in another place. Another life altogether.

It was a fraud, and a potentially deadly one at that. Voldemort shook him off and jumped to his feet in the stupid boots, almost losing his balance on the sand, a blanket caught around his ankle.

He kicked it free,

"I'm not _worried_. But I can't return you to your mentor with too many bruises."

Harry infuriatingly gave him another winsome smile,

"Perhaps you don't have to return me at all. We could…"

"Captain!"

Snape stood just outside the tent,

"If you're quite ready to start the day, there are a few matters at hand.

Without glancing back at Harry, Voldemort strode out and up to the tree line, well out of earshot of the tent. His boots were already too hot, and he hadn't put on his belt. He squared his shoulders and stiffened his spine, swatting at a fly,

"What is it, Mr. Quartermaster?"

Snape exhaled a long breath, his lips in a thin line,

"Well, Captain, I want to make sure your head's in the game. The head atop your shoulders, for the record. Because the crew are starting to wonder."

Voldemort kept his tone even, aware of the men's eyes on them across the beach. Had Fletcher been sowing more seeds of resentment?

"If they're so keen to elect a new captain, they should have at it."

"What kind of nonsense is that?"

"Maybe it would be for the best. I could…move on."

Sighing, Snape shook his head, shoulders slumping,

"I know you've been restless. But I tell you I've seen it before, and there's no way you'd be satisfied doing anything else. The only rules we have are our own. Not bloody England's tyranny. Would you really go back to that? Not that they'd have you. You're a wanted man in the New World and old."

"Surely there's another way to make a life out of England's reach. A Spanish island, or French. Or somewhere new entirely. It won't be easy, but… Well, why the hell shouldn't I try? Why shouldn't I live to be a fat old man with my lover at my side instead of this constant struggle to survive?"

Snape's eyes narrowed,

"Don't tell me you're dreaming about that fancy little lord."

It was all Voldemort could do to keep from slamming his fist into Snape's weathered face, a face he'd always regarded with affection. He vibrated with violence begging to be unleashed.

Hands lifting in surrender, Snape shook his head. He lowered his voice, pleading,

"Tell me you don't really think he'd want you? Once he's back in civilization, in a grand house, with pretty girls and hot baths at the snap of his fingers, succulent meat on his plate every night? As much as he enjoyed your cock, do you really think Dumbledore's heir would give up a life of luxury and riches for you?"

Voldemort wanted to scream Yes! He managed to get out,

"He said he didn't want that. He said…"

Voldemort was flayed apart, bare under the cloudless sky, sweat beading on his forehead.

The sympathy in Snape's eyes was the worst thing,

"He said whatever he thought you wanted to hear. He's a clever lad. He's kept himself not only alive, but in comfort. Granted far more freedom than any prisoner I've ever seen. You remember what you told us the night we captured him? Not to be taken in by him. Not to be ensnared. I fear it is too late, but you must heed your own words, Captain. I'm begging you. And if you actually care for him, let him have his privileged life."

Voldemort opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again.

Snape went on,

"He's young. He was caught up in adventure, warming a pirate captain's bed. It was a fantasy for you both. Don't do this to yourself. I've seen many a sailor chase after some sweet young thing, and it always ends the same. I don't want that disappointment for you. That lad has his whole life before him. Truly, what can you offer? Think about it. The reality is, we're thieves. Killers."

Denial sparked, and Voldemort spat,

"Because Dumbledore cheated us and branded us pirates. Criminals."

Snape was silent for a few long heartbeats, assessing him with an unreadable expression, until Voldemort shifted on his feet, desperation clawing at him,

"Well, he did!"

"Aye. And we embraced it. We made Lord Voldemort one of the most feared names in these waters in a few short years. We stole and we killed. Yes, there are other pirates who are worse. We haven't raped or tortured under your watch. But don't fool yourself into thinking you're something other than what you are."

Voldemort jerked as Snape gently clasped his arm,

"You're too good at this to give it up. You don't know any other way to live. You'll forget him before long, and these doldrums will pass. You'll remember what you love about the sea and hunting our next prize."

Voldemort's throat was bone-dry, but he scraped out,

"What's wrong with wanting a little peace?"

Snape sighed and gave his arm a final squeeze,

"Men like us don't get peace."

Voldemort watched the closest thing he had to a friend turn away and rejoin the crew. Snape was right. Voldemort didn't deserve a moment of serenity. He didn't deserve a life with a man as bright and beautiful and good as Harry. More importantly, Harry deserved better than a scarred, worn-down pirate with too much blood on his hands. Voldemort knew this.

Knowing was one thing. His heart's thudding desire, flowing through his veins like the tide…relentless, unforgiving…was another. But it was clear he'd indulged his fantasies far too much and for far too long.

He marched back to the tent, ducking through the flapping entrance. He tucked his shirt into his trousers and snatched up his belt, the urge to rejoin Harry in their makeshift bed tugging at him, fishhooks in his flesh.

Harry rolled to his knees, trying to hide another wince,

"Can I help with the barnacles?"

Keeping his gaze anywhere but on Harry as he stalked to his makeshift desk, Voldemort snapped,

"No. You'll stay here."

"Here? Inside the tent? But—"

"But nothing. You are the prisoner, and you will stay where I tell you to. I'm the one in charge."

The dagger had to be at Harry's throat, not his own,

"I've let you have your way too much. That is at an end. Soon you will be returned to your treacherous mentor on Godric's Hollow, and I'll be rich."

Harry was silent for a few moments, then cleared his throat, his voice shaking,

"What did Mr. Snape say to you? What's changed so suddenly?"

"Nothing has changed."

Voldemort kept his gaze averted,

"This has always been the reality of the situation. This will soon be over."

Harry's voice was hoarse,

"Yet until then, we can still have this between us."

"There is nothing between us."

"But… Last night, we…"

With jerky motions, Voldemort strapped on the belt, ruthlessly pushing away the memories of their wild coupling…Harry's cries, the heat of his body, rain soaking their fevered skin, Voldemort certain he could hear their hearts beating as one.

He spat,

"We had sex. I stuck my cock in your tight little hole. Nothing more. I'm a pirate captain, and you are our prize. I've enjoyed taking your virgin arse, knowing how much it would horrify your mentor, but have grown tired of it. You're used up now."

"You don't mean that."

He roared,

"Don't tell me what I mean!"

And shoved his pistol in his belt, his hand trembling. This conversation had to end. He had to hold his resolve. Casting about for a source of particular cruelty, he found his target,

"I must say I eagerly anticipate relaying to your mentor in great detail all the filthy things you've said and done. How you begged for my cock. What a whore you are. Perhaps I'll draw him a few pictures."

Harry sucked in a breath,

"You wouldn't."

He laughed harshly,

"Wouldn't I? This is about revenge, Boy. Nothing more. If I've lulled you into a false sense of complacency, you have no one to blame but yourself. For I'm a pirate, after all. Notoriously untrustworthy."

Don't look at him. Put an end to this now before tumbling any deeper down this chasm.

"I don't understand what changed overnight."

Voldemort stopped by the blankets, his legs spread, looking down from his full height, sneer firmly in place. He struck the killing blow,

"Then apparently you're an imbecile after all."

With that, he stalked off, already trying to forget the image of Harry's mouth open in surprise, undeniable hurt creasing his beautiful face.


	37. Chapter 37

"_Then apparently you're_ _an imbecile after all."_

Harry knew he shouldn't allow the insult to cut so deeply, but it did all the same. He'd welcomed the bruises on his body, but Voldemort's sudden reversal left his soul battered, an awful hollow sensation taking up residence. He should have known this was coming, but it had taken him utterly unaware.

As the morning went by and Voldemort didn't return, Harry curled on his side to take pressure off his arse—which throbbed dully, a constant reminder. To be caught so off-guard was beyond foolish, given that Voldemort _was_ a pirate. A killer, a thief, a criminal.

Hadn't Harry initially hated him? Cowered from him, felt the punishing grip of Voldemort's hand on his throat? He shouldn't have forgotten for a moment.

Yet they'd taken such pleasure in each other, and he knew Voldemort hadn't faked that. And it was more than fucking. They'd _talked_. Confessed truths. Voldemort had cradled him in his arms, and none of that had been to aid base desires. Voldemort had bestowed on him those beautiful smiles.

Harry's eyes burned now to think of them.

Through the flapping sides of the tent, he spied him marching around in those ridiculous boots while everyone else went the practical route in bare feet. The thunder of Voldemort's commands echoed across the sand, the men sharing looks as they scurried to obey.

Midday, Mr. Lestrange brought him water, fresh-cooked fish, and tangy, sweet fruit that should have been a delight. Harry sat up and poked at his plate glumly, thanking him, glad he'd put on his breeches earlier.

Frowning, Lestrange tugged on the loose ends of his long, curling hair, which he'd mostly tied up against the heat. He was perhaps five and thirty, wrinkles starting to line his bearded face, the hair below his chin long enough to bead together into a point,

"What happened that's got the captain so furious and you stuck in here?"

Harry shrugged despite his shoulders' protest. He was unable to keep the bitterness from his tone,

"I am a prisoner, after all. Just a thing to be bartered. He saw fit to remind me."

Lestrange sighed,

"Well, don't fret. It'll be over soon and you'll be home safe."

He gave Harry a smile. _Home. Safe._ The two words rattled around Harry's mind. He had no home, and the safety he'd felt in Voldemort's arms had evaporated. Had he tricked himself to think that Voldemort cared, even a little?

God, was he really that stupid? And truly, what _had_ he expected? That he and Voldemort would sail off into the sunset together? He didn't even know the man's true name.

He jolted when Mr. Lestrange clasped his arm, kneeling beside him,

"Truly, I'll do everything I can to see you home safely."

Harry nodded gratefully, then asked,

"Where is your home, Mr. Lestrange?"

"Rabastan"

He shrugged, sitting back and crossing his legs,

"And it's the ship. Wherever the wind takes us."

"But originally? Was it Ireland?"

He smiled,

"I tried to get rid of the accent, but aye. County Clare. My family died when a fever swept through our village. I came across the sea to try my luck in the New World. Never planned on becoming a pirate, but here I am. Life is funny that way."

"How did you end up on _The Death Eater_?"

"I was on a merchant ship in port in Hogsmeade. Captain Voldemort was recruiting. I knew I might die sooner than I'd like as a pirate, but the conditions on the merchant ship were even more deadly. Scurvy was rampant. We had no freedom. No respect. Captain Voldemort offered both. He's a harsh taskmaster, but he's fair."

Harry toyed with his food,

"I'm sorry about your parents. How old were you?"

"I was nineteen."

His gaze went distant, and his shoulders lifted with a deep breath in and out.

"I miss them."

"I'm so very sorry about your parents."

He wished there was something he could say or some gesture to make. He took Alan's shoulder gently.

"What the hell is this?"

Voldemort roared, storming into the tent, reaching for his pistol. Leaping to his feet so quickly he almost toppled over, Rabastan backed away with hands raised,

"Nothing, Captain. I swear. I just brought his rations."

Between gritted teeth, Voldemort ordered,

"Get the hell out."

Rabastan practically leapt for the door, away in an instant. It was Harry's turn to jump up and demand, "What is the matter with you?"

Fisting the loose neck of Harry's shirt, Voldemort glowered down, hot, harsh blasts of air skimming over his face. "Did you think you'd work your charms on him? Turn the men against me?"

"Well, I _am_ a whore, according to you." Harry leaned in, going up on his toes, their noses close to touching. "But no. I was simply listening to him tell me of his dead wife and child."

"Why should I believe you?" Voldemort shoved him back a step, looming over him with his bulk.

Harry unclenched his hands and grabbed Voldemort's shirt, digging in his heels, determined not to give another inch. "You know what I think? You're jealous. But most of all, you're afraid."

Voldemort shoved him away and made his escape. Harry staggered but stayed upright. He paced around the tent for long minutes, blood rushing in his ears, the urge to punch something nearly overwhelming.

Finally the fight drained away, and he sank back to the nest of blankets. Determined not to weaken himself, he had a bite of fish but almost hurled it back up, his stomach too knotted to eat.

Of course that reminded him of when he'd vomited all over Voldemort, and Voldemort hadn't been angry at all. He'd tended to Harry so kindly and brought him into his bed for comfort.

Why had he done that if Harry was nothing but a hole to fuck? Why had he taken such care later to bring Harry pleasure with his mouth and hands? Read to him for hours even when his voice became hoarse?

Putting his bowl aside, Harry curled atop the nest of blankets again. Burying his face, he inhaled deeply despite himself. He'd become accustomed to Voldemort's smell—a woodsy scent and the salt sea spray that clung to his skin. Accustomed to the sounds he made—low grunts and groans, but also small sighs when he thought Harry was sleeping.

Most of all, he'd become used to the touch of Voldemort's callused hands on his body. The wonderful fullness and power of his cock. How his weathered fingertips sometimes skated over Harry's skin with an impossibly soft touch.

Was Voldemort now becoming familiar with Harry in the same way? Did he experience a pulse of desire simply from his scent?

But the desires bottled within Harry had grown too big and unwieldy. Oh, how he yearned to peel away more of Voldemort's scarred layers and wriggle into the spots where soft smiles and even laughter lived.

He wanted to hold and be held, to share wine and bread and the warmth of a hearth in winter, listening to Voldemort read aloud. To create a home together.

"I really am an imbecile," he muttered. He had no home. He couldn't make one on Godric's Hollow, no matter how much he'd miss dear Luna. Lord, what would she think if she knew the things he'd done?

Voldemort's threat to expose Harry's true self to Albus echoed harshly in his mind, and now resentment grew. Hadn't Voldemort told him there was no dishonor in it, that Harry's desires were natural? And now he threatened to shame him for it.

Harry's skin crawled with humiliation, yet the hypocrisy galled him—infuriated him.

_Whore._

He'd felt so at home in his own skin with Voldemort, sucking and rutting and fucking unabashedly. When Voldemort had held him down, mastered him, an odd sense of power had filled Harry along with that massive cock. And now Voldemort said he should feel guilty for it, that it was wrong after all?

Tears pricked his eyes, and he swiped at them angrily. No. He wouldn't allow Voldemort to strip him of the fulfillment he'd found in his soul, the harmony he'd finally achieved within himself. The knowledge that he _could_ have the things he'd always craved, and it wasn't a sin. It was true and proper and he wouldn't deny himself.

Fists clenching, he sat and reached for his bowl, shoveling the food in, letting rage simmer and fuel him along with the rations. He would keep up his strength; he would not be bowed by Voldemort's bluster. He would not submit to this cruelty, no matter how strenuously and absurdly Voldemort insisted on it.

"I don't believe him," he whispered.

Staring out at Voldemort on the beach, working shoulder to shoulder with his men to clean and repair the hull, Harry vacillated between anger and compassion like a ship rolling on rough seas.

He thought of the boy who'd been snatched by a press gang and forced into the navy, and yet had still wanted to serve his country. Then was branded a pirate. But he'd embraced the role, no matter what—or who—drove him to it.

Harry rooted around for his dagger, which Voldemort had allowed him to bring ashore with nary a blink. _He trusts me._

Yet why should that fill him with warmth and satisfaction? No matter how tender he had been at times, Voldemort was his captor. Harry shouldn't care about his thoughts or feelings.

He jumped to his feet and practiced his blade work, feinting and lunging for invisible opponents, sweat slicking his skin. If Voldemort said he didn't give a damn, Harry should take him at his word.

Still, each time he tried to convince himself there was nothing between them, that he'd imagined it all, memories of Voldemort's gentle hands, genuine smile, or laughter rippled through him.

Gripping the dagger, he slashed at the air, no end in sight to his confusion—especially since Voldemort was apparently determined to avoid him like the blackest of plagues.


	38. Chapter 38

The crew's work went well beyond sunset, and Harry paced the tent, dagger still in hand. It seemed there was a worse thing than being demeaned: being ignored. After a day holed up, with trees and water and that glorious beach taunting him—along with Voldemort's utter disregard—Harry had had quite enough.

It was late now, many of the men asleep, others still drinking their rum around a fire. Clutching the dagger like a talisman, willing himself strength, he strode from the tent and across the beach with no hesitation.

He was past the fire when he heard the first shouts, and soon Voldemort's voice boomed,

"Where the hell do you think you're going? Get back in the tent. _Now._"

Heart thumping, Harry spun around. Still a distance away, Voldemort marched toward him, lips in a thin line, all eyes on them. Harry yelled,

"I'm going for a run!"

Voldemort shouted back,

"You had your run yesterday."

In the firelight as he approached, the lines of Voldemort's face were granite, fists clenched.

"I told you to stay in that tent. I will not allow this."

Harry waited until Voldemort was almost in reach,

"Bet you can't catch me."

Voldemort's curses exploded in the night as Harry sprinted away, followed by his command for the men to stay put and his promise that he would indeed catch the prisoner.

A laugh bubbled up in Harry's throat, manic and wild as he led Voldemort on the chase, knowing he could outrun him by far…especially since Voldemort insisted on those boots.

Harry reached the end of the island in what seemed like a blink, his feet flying over the sand, heart pumping, dagger in his grip—powerful and alive. Unbroken.

At the end of the island, the sand ended in a huddle of rocks and boulders. Dagger in his mouth, Harry clambered up to wait for Voldemort, but determined not to be ignored. He would confront Voldemort with the truth. He would…

A man appeared from the corner of his eye, cresting the other side of the rock jumble. Harry's heart stopped as he spun to face him, dagger still between his teeth.

They stared at each other in the starlight, and Harry made out the outline of a ship anchored offshore—three masts, one clearly splintered and damaged. Men in longboats rowing ashore, no uniforms from what he could tell.

_Pirates._

The man opened his mouth to shout, and Harry dove, smashing him back against a rock and knocking the air from him in a pained heave. Then they tumbled between two boulders…fortunately onto sand…and Harry's own lungs seized with the impact as he bit painfully into the dagger's wooden handle, refusing to relinquish it.

About Harry's size and wiry, the pirate tried to scramble out of their tangle of limbs in the narrow space between the boulders. On his back, Harry managed to get his dagger in hand as the pirate punched at his head and face, the blows glancing, not enough room for full swings.

Still, blood streamed from Harry's nose as they grappled, squawking and scrabbling and spitting, the man on top of him. When the pirate's blunt fingers closed around Harry's neck, panic took hold.

_Dying! No!_

Harry kicked madly, striking stone with his bare feet and trying everything to shift off the man's weight and turn the tables, gasping for air, white stars bursting in the blackness.

The man was too strong, his hands impossible to pry free from Harry's throat, not enough space to get a knee up or to twist and use momentum.

This was how he'd end.

Harry flailed out, the dagger blade clanging off rock. He changed his grip and stabbed upward, and the pirate howled as he struck flesh and a shoulder bone.

Then a shriek trailed into a gurgle as Harry jammed the blade into the man's neck. He pulled it out and slashed, warm blood spurting over Harry's face as the pirate choked, hands on his throat now, trying to stem the unrelenting tide.

The pirate was still on top of Harry in the dank, dark space, and Harry shoved at him, climbing over the man he'd just killed, not waiting until the deed was finished, desperate to escape those wheezing last breaths.

Standing on him, Harry hauled himself up, finding hand and footholds on the boulders, blood in his mouth along with the wooden dagger handle, metal and oak. Sucking in the fresh air, limbs shaking, he stood atop the rocks as Voldemort approached, chest heaving, steel in his voice and no weapons on his belt as he said,

"I don't know what the hell you think you're doing, but…"

He stopped and stared, inhaling so sharply he jolted with it. Bafflement creased his face.


	39. Chapter 39

Sucking in the fresh air, limbs shaking, he stood atop the rocks as Voldemort approached, chest heaving, steel in his voice and no weapons on his belt as he said,

"I don't know what the hell you think you're doing, but—"

He stopped and stared, inhaling so sharply he jolted with it. Bafflement creased his face.

With a glance behind him at the pirates organizing on the island's east side, Harry tucked the dagger into his breeches and scrambled down toward Voldemort, who met him halfway, confusion replaced with drive, reaching for him with strong hands, lifting him from the rocks onto his feet, eyes wild as they took him in.

Voldemort asked,

"How?"

As he passed his hands over Harry's head, arms, and chest, then took hold of his stained cheeks.

"Where are you hurt?"

Harry reached up to wipe at the blood on his face.

"I killed him… Pirates… They're coming."

After sitting Harry down on a low rock, still checking him for injuries, Voldemort climbed to peek over the boulders. He quickly returned, hissing,

"Damn it, Grindelwald didn't give up after all."

On his knees by Harry's feet, he held his face again.

"Can you run?"

He nodded,

"Yes."

Shock gave way to the horrible thrill of battle that he understood for the first time, and Harry jumped to his feet,

"Yes."

Still on his knees and gazing up, Voldemort gripped his hands,

"Tell Snape to bring everyone. We're helpless with the ship still out of the water. This is all or nothing. We're outnumbered, so we must take them by surprise."

He held Harry's fingers so tightly Harry feared they might snap,

"Wait at camp. If we fail, surrender and tell them who you are and what you're worth. Tell them they can't hurt you or there will be no money. Promise you won't fight. Promise you'll stay safe."

Harry shook his head vehemently,

"No, I can help! I killed him. He was going to kill me, but I didn't let him. I couldn't. I had to… There are so many of them, I have to…"

On his knees, Voldemort implored,

"Please."

And Harry found he couldn't deny him. He nodded, and Voldemort rose, giving him a crooked smile,

"I bet you can make it back before I reach their ship."

Harry felt his heart thudding with fear,

"Their ship? But… There are too many of them."

Voldemort smirked,

"Yes, but they're gathering on the beach, which means only a skeleton crew remaining aboard."

He bent and tugged off his boots,

"Good night for a little swim. Now go."

There were so many things Harry wanted to say…too many things. Instead, he pulled his hands from Voldemort's grasp and pressed the bloody dagger into Voldemort's palm.

Then he ran.

His mind spun with what Voldemort would do in the meantime, praying he'd wait for reinforcements and knowing he wouldn't. Harry flew down the beach, denying himself the lunatic urge to return to Voldemort, as if Harry could somehow protect him from the hordes of men arriving from the other ship.

He shouted for Mr. Snape as he approached, and the men jumped into action, casting their cups of rum aside and gathering their weapons. They seemed to forget about Harry as they stormed down the beach, Mr. Snape sending contingents into the trees as well. It was simple for Harry to follow, staying close to the foliage, protected by the shadows, sand forgiving under his battered feet.

The explosion rocked the night as he neared the end of the island, almost knocking him back on his arse. Ears ringing, he rushed onward, ducking into the forest, ignoring the rough twigs, roots, and rocks under his soles, nearing the men Mr. Snape had sent into the trees, following their lead.

At the edge of the jungle he stopped, taking in the fire-illuminated scene below. Grindelwald's unprotected ship burned, orange flames licking up the mainmast they hadn't fully repaired, men screaming as the gun deck was engulfed. The flint of gunpowder was thick in the air even at a distance, thick plumes of black smoke rising.

Voldemort! Where was he? Had he been able to swim away fast enough after presumably lighting a fuse? Harry stood on the precipice above the beach, scanning it desperately, calculating the quickest path to the water as the Death Eater crew streamed forward from two sides.

They cornered the pirates, who were apparently taken by surprise, fumbling and flustered, stunned to see their ship burning. Then… there.

Voldemort emerged from the water, outlined by the orange glow behind as he grabbed the closest man and snapped his neck, taking up the man's cutlass as he joined the fight, clashing steel echoing.

The other crew fought with deadly fervor of their own once the shock had subsided, and Harry held his breath in his battered lungs, his ribs aching. The terror that he would see Voldemort struck down gripped him, but he was rooted to the spot by his promise to stay safe… and his own fear of joining such a fray.

Shouts and screams of agony filled the night, clawing at him. He'd killed a man, and now death was everywhere. Metal clashed and gunshots exploded. Harry had never witnessed such brutality; had not been able to fathom it.

He should have been horrified, yet all that mattered was that Voldemort survived. Hate for the other pirates boiled in Harry, and he wished them all dead so Voldemort could live.

Grindelwald ran at Voldemort with a battle cry, tumbling him to the sand. They bared their teeth as they grappled. Each turn and shove lasted a lifetime to Harry as he willed the upper hand to Voldemort with all of his soul.

Voldemort used the dagger to kill the other captain. How strange to think that Mr. Black had gifted it to Harry what seemed like a lifetime ago, and now it was an ocean away in a pirate's grasp. Harry cheered the pouring blood as Voldemort carved the man hollow, victorious.

Grindelwald's men were broken, the remaining crew surrendering, but Harry couldn't draw a full breath until Voldemort shouted orders and left the smoldering carnage to climb over the rocks, determination in his stride.

Returning to him.

Harry retreated through the trees, beating him to the other side, waiting farther down the empty beach. In the distance around the tip of the island, shouts echoed in the aftermath of battle.

Yet here, it was only the two of them. When Voldemort spotted him, he skidded to a stop, his chest heaving and feet still bare. They stared at each other as a bird shrieked above, waves breaking on the shore, fiery destruction in the distance, and smoke on the wind.

Voldemort started toward him, and Harry couldn't stay rooted, racing to meet him. Face streaked in red, Voldemort took a breath to speak, but Harry dragged down his head and silenced him, kissing him the way he'd dreamed of for weeks… yet not how he'd imagined it at all.

Crushing their lips together, rubbing against the wet burn of Voldemort's stubbled cheeks, Harry drank him in fiercely, plundering with his tongue when Voldemort gasped for breath, tasting sweat and gunpowder and metallic blood—their own or that of the men they'd killed, he couldn't say.

He should have been filled with abhorrence. Disgust or despair. None of those emotions came calling. Instead, Harry had never felt so powerful, so free… so alive.

Groaning, they clutched each other, all lips and bruising hands, clasping, drowning. Voldemort lifted Harry clear off his feet, wrapping him in his arms, their mouths desperate, tongues devouring as they stumbled about.

Harry broke free, lungs burning as he propelled Voldemort toward the trees and into the darkness. Voldemort grunted as his back hit a wide trunk, the gleam of his eyes just visible under the umbrella of palm trees. Harry bit at his lips, kissing him feverishly, all teeth and spit. He muttered,

"I don't believe anything you said this morning. This is real."

He tore open Voldemort's wet shirt and spread his hands over his chest, digging his fingers into the tattoo he knew was there. Hair scratched his palms,

"We're real."

Inhaling loudly, Voldemort pushed him away a step and spun him around against the tree. The bark was surprisingly smooth as Harry's back crashed into it. His head didn't impact at all, cushioned by Voldemort's big hand.

Voldemort kissed him, moaning into Harry's mouth and rutting against him, all muscle and bone and desperation, lips hot. Harry's cock ached, and he tried to hook his leg up over Voldemort's thigh for more friction, the lingering seawater from Voldemort's swim dampening Harry's trousers too, the coolness welcome on his fevered flesh.

Voldemort's free hand gripped his waist and lifted him like he was weightless, his other hand still behind Harry's head as he pummelled their hips together, groaning and growling.

Between messy, wet, glorious kisses, little cries escaped Harry as he wrapped his legs around Voldemort's hips, their pricks like rock through the layers of their trousers. He wanted to feel hot flesh but was powerless to stop, the thought of parting even for a few moments impossible to contemplate.

He sucked on Voldemort's tongue as they drove against each other. Nothing else existed but their gasping, shameless hunt for release, mouths fused, teeth clashing, slick lips swollen.

The pressure in Harry's groin sparked fire, gunpowder surging through his veins. He wanted to tell Voldemort to claim him, longed to be stretched by his cock again, burned from the inside out.

But he still couldn't bear to break away from their kisses, chasing Voldemort's very essence with his tongue, the dam broken, finally tasting his mouth. He clung to Voldemort's shoulders but dragged one hand down to his chest, raking his nails over the tattoo, making his own mark.

Voldemort tore his mouth away from Harry's with a shout, shuddering and jerking against him, spilling in his wet trousers. He pressed their foreheads together, lips grazing, and Harry tightened his legs around him, lungs tight.

"That's it."

Voldemort muttered, breath hot on Harry's mouth,

"Come for me."

Voldemort rutted against him with renewed vigour even though he'd already released, fingers tightening in Harry's curls.

Harry's ecstasy gripped and shook him, a predator with its helpless prey. He could only whimper into Voldemort's mouth as he pulsed, the burn of pleasure scouring him, leaving him limp against the tree, Voldemort's hand warm in his sweat-slick hair, still protecting his head.

They panted, noses touching, chests heaving. With a groan, Harry unhooked his legs from Voldemort's waist, Voldemort helping to ease him to his feet. Neither of them was steady, and they remained leaning against the shelter of the tree.

"Only you,"

Harry whispered. Voldemort traced Harry's lips with his fingertips, then leaned their foreheads together, stooping to wrap him in his arms. Harry held on, twisting his fingers into the ends of Voldemort's damp hair.

When they kissed again, the hint of blood and battle still lingered. But in the embers of the fire that had raged, in the slow, entreating sweep of tongues and now-gentle pressure of lips, in the soft moans and sighs, Harry tasted only love.


	40. Chapter 40

"Heave!"

The coarse line dug into Voldemort's palms as they yanked, the ship inching upright. To the east, the sky was finally dark again, the smoldering orange light extinguished, but soon enough the sun would appear.

All hands toiled to bring _The Damned Death Eater_ to rights, the remaining, vanquished men knowing they had no choice but to help with their captain dead and ship destroyed, the explosion visible for miles. They were all in equal danger, the Royal Navy always lurking.

Beside him, Harry winced, gritting his teeth, and Voldemort knew he'd pull until his hands dripped red. Pride flowed, and he ached to hold him, to lose himself for a few blissful minutes before returning to their toil.

Oh, to kiss Harry again, even though their mouths were both swollen and bruised.

It sent a shiver down his spine although his skin was damp with sweat in the warm night. The way Harry had flung himself into his arms, yanked down his head, and pressed their lips together.

The kiss had been an invasion, Harry demanding entrance, his fingers digging into Voldemort's scalp, claiming victory before Voldemort could mount a defense.

He'd been utterly conquered in that moment, but it was a glorious surrender. Voldemort had happily gone down with the ship, finally tasting Harry… the bitter tang of blood and battle unable to erase a sweetness all his own.

After, their kisses had flowed with a gentle fervor he could only name adoration, neither of them able to get enough, their bodies bruised and battered and entwined as one.

But there was no time as the dawn raced toward them mercilessly, not caring that they'd only careened a portion of the ship, not caring that they must sail the final miles to Godric's Hollow and not delay. The possible attention drawn by the explosion was too dangerous to wait another day.

This would be the day he must give up Harry, and Voldemort wished the night would never end.

There had been so much blood. In the pale starlight, it had appeared dark and deadly, masking Harry's face like a funeral shroud. In that instant as his heart seized and shattered, Voldemort had been certain Harry was doomed… that he'd witness the final moments, hear Harry's final gasp of breath and see those eyes go glassy, feel his body grow cold.

His grief at the thought still haunted Voldemort, and he marveled that he ever could have casually… thoughtlessly… threatened to end Harry's life. Now he would protect it with every inch of his being, no matter the cost.

As dawn neared, he yearned to hold Harry close to be sure he wasn't a phantom but still flesh and bone. They all splashed into the water, the crew and prisoners dragging the ship, almost deep enough, their muscles burning, heels digging into the sandy bottom.

Harry groaned, and Voldemort wanted to order him to retreat to solid ground and rest his battered body. Selfishly, he kept Harry at his side, knowing Harry would protest anyway.

Knowing his selfishness would soon be at an end.

That Harry still lived was a miracle, and it was one Voldemort would not take for granted. He'd glimpsed the scout's body down between the boulders. In his mind's eye, it was Harry crumpled there, his throat torn asunder. Hidden unless one knew where to look.

Voldemort might have searched the island in vain for days, only discovering him thanks to the birds circling. He imagined Harry rotting and half-eaten, emerald eyes pecked out.

Breath shuddering, an iron band squeezing, Voldemort staggered, and might have crashed into the surf if not for Harry holding his arm.

"All right?"

Harry asked, breathing hard. Voldemort could only nod, and God, there it was in the distance: the first fingers of dawn reaching over the horizon. He gently took hold of Harry's hand and peeled it away, giving him a little smile that seemed to put Harry's mind at ease as they hauled into deeper water, almost there, almost there…

By the end of the dawning day, Voldemort would deliver Harry to the colony… to his family. He would see him leave _The Damned Death Eater_ behind and sleep in a proper bed, eat proper food. Reunite with his sister and make his plans for a new life away from his mentor.

Away from Voldemort. Safe.

Harry deserved a life in a place where he knew no need for a dagger, where he wouldn't be forced to kill and be corrupted any further.

When the ship floated, a cheer rang up, Harry grinning along with the men, even Grindelwald's crew celebrating. These were the men who hadn't insisted on fighting to the death, the men who cared more for survival than loyalty to a dead captain.

Although Voldemort motioned to Snape and ordered them locked in the hold now that the ship was upright, they might make valued replacements for the _Death Eater_ men they'd lost in the battle. Time would tell.

They had to get under way, and Voldemort had to keep his wits about him. He said to Harry,

"Can you gather the blankets and whatnot from o—the tent?"

As soon as the question was out, he sensed the side glances from nearby crew members, and barked,

"Now!"

Harry's lips twitched, but he held back the smile and headed back across the sand. How had Voldemort allowed himself to get this lost in their… God, it was a courtship, wasn't it? He couldn't deny it.

Trying to empty his mind of anything but the task at hand, he conferred with Snape and gave more orders for readying to leave, the stacks of supplies needing to be reloaded onto the ship.

Glancing at the tent, he froze, spotting a blaze of red hair ducking into it in the murky light of dawn. Leaving the men to their duties, Voldemort strode across the sand. Fletcher's rough voice carried beyond the canvas as Voldemort neared.

"Don't think we don't know what you've been up to. You'd better not try to mess things up fer us."

Harry spoke casually,

"Duly noted."

"Listen, you fancy little brat. We can all see you's leadin' the captain around by his prick. Wrappin' 'im around your finger. It's pathetic, it is. As if you'd give him the time of day otherwise. I know yer kind. Rich piece of shit. What you been whisperin' in his ear, huh? If you mess with us gettin' what's owed—"

"You'll what, exactly?"

Voldemort demanded through gritted teeth, storming into the tent. Fletcher was right in Harry's face, but Harry stood his ground. Voldemort still yanked Fletcher back by the scruff of his neck, digging in his fingers.

Fletcher struggled, flopping like a fish on a hook,

"We just want to make sure yer not goin' soft. Any fool can see the way you look at 'im. You'd better go through with this! Or we need a new captain who will."

"A new captain. Is that so?"

"I think it is!"

Fletcher lifted his chin, indignant,

"And I ain't the only one who don't trust you!"

"Well, then let's find out if the men agree."

Still with a punishing grip on Fletcher's neck, Voldemort propelled him out of the tent. Time to put a end to the mutinous rumblings.

He turned back, and sure enough, Harry was following. Voldemort shook his head,

"Back inside until this is over. I mean it."

Jaw clenched, Harry obeyed. Voldemort drove Fletcher down near the water, the murmur of work ceasing, all eyes on them as he let go of the man with a last shove.

Voldemort made sure his voice carried,

"Mr. Fletcher has informed me that there is question about my ability as captain. About my loyalty to you. My brothers."

It was one thing to whisper in the night about the captain after a few cups of rum. In the harsh light of day, after they'd fought together for their lives, it was quite another.

Voldemort surveyed the crew, looking each man in the eye, sizing them up unblinkingly. They were silent, some scuffing their feet in the sand, heads low.

"If you wish to vote on a new captain, that is your right. I would never stand in your way except in battle, when my word is law. We are equals. I told you we would exchange our prisoner for a large ransom, and that time draws very near. Potter has proven himself brave. He saved Mr. Lestrange in the rigging, and just last night he ran back here to sound the alarm. We are thankful, and he's enjoyed certain liberties. That much is true."

The men waited, some with furrowed brows.

Voldemort let them wait another few moments,

"Yet he is a means to an end."

He allowed a suggestive smirk to paint his face,

"In more ways than one, I confess."

This garnered a chuckle from the crew, as he'd hoped,

"But make no mistake. He has not bewitched me. The money is what matters. Revenge is what matters. Your futures."

At his side, Snape cleared his throat, hands on his waist,

"And in case any of you have memories shorter than my Great-Aunt Bertha, let me remind you that our captain swam out just last night and blew it sky-high. Eliminated the threat of it sailing around the shore and blowing us all to kingdom come with its many, many guns. We lost some of our brothers in that battle, and I wish there was time to give them proper burials. The ceremony will have to wait. But the only reason we're here to remember the fallen is because of Captain Voldemort. Because of his brass balls and leadership, which has never steered us wrong. Has it?"

"No!"

Came a chorus of shouts.

Snape eyed the men,

"Because he has never steered us wrong, has he?"

"No!"

The crew agreed.

"And he won't now, my brothers. We can depend on Captain Voldemort, just as we always have."

Lestrange called out,

"Fletcher's been trouble since he joined us."

"That he surely bloody has,"

Snape said, rounding on Fletcher, who vibrated with fury,

"And you mean to stir the pot now? When we are so close to our prize? This is the time for unity. We are brothers."

Fletcher's face was beet red, and he balled his hands into fists, peering around at the crew,

"Yer all idiots. You know he won't give up that snivelin' brat! He's lyin' to you! I bet he won't let us get our revenge on that colony neither, or on Potter's sister. I thought pirates were supposed to be fearless men who take what they want. Who don't follow orders! All I've done on this ship is mop up shit and clean fuckin' dishes!"

Snape stepped closer to Fletcher, his voice low but menacing,

"I'm sorry we're a disappointment. That, yes, we actually have work to do, just like on your merchant ship. The difference is, our crew is treated fairly. Equally. We kill when we must, but we are not animals. And right now, with the Royal Navy possibly appearing on the horizon any minute, we don't have time for a weak, whining would-be mutineer. Especially not one who's been whispering to Grindelwald's crew while we've worked. Maybe you're hatching a plot against us."

Voldemort didn't know if it was true or not, but it certainly garnered a reaction, the men buzzing with murmurs, resentment and anger simmering hotter,

Fletcher gazed around, his face going even redder,

"I have not! You're a bloody liar!"

He spat at Snape. It was a grave miscalculation.

"Ah, so it's not just Captain Voldemort who is a liar. It's me as well. Your quartermaster. Well, men, if you believe this true, perhaps we should have two votes here this morning, Royal Navy heading for us or not."

Of course they had no idea if the navy had seen the explosion, but it mattered not. Voldemort watched with satisfaction and appreciation for Snape's skills at handling the crew as the men clamored to defend Snape, sentiment toward Fletcher turning dark.

Nott, who had been one of the men talking mutiny with Fletcher the other night, shouted,

"I say we leave 'im here! Don't want no rats aboard."

In the din of agreement, someone shouted,

"Let's vote!"

Fletcher snarled, stamping his foot like a child having a tantrum,

"Damn you all! I don't need you!"

"No?"

Snape asked, lowering his voice even further to a deadly quiet,

"Then you can stay here. Blissfully free of us."

Fletcher paled,

"What?"

"All in favor?"

Snape asked, and the ayes had it resoundingly,

"Mr. Avery, Mr. Nott. Restrain him by the trees. We'll cut him free before we go. I'm sure you'll be very happy here, Mr. Fletcher."

As Fletcher began a barrage of abuse, Snape added,

"Gag him too,"

Then watched dispassionately as he was hauled away, kicking and screaming.

How he would survive alone, Voldemort had no idea and didn't give a damn. He spoke calmly to the crew although his heart thumped,

"That's settled. Soon we will exchange our prisoner for the ransom. If there is no ransom to be had, there will be blood."

Since he didn't specify whose, it wasn't exactly a lie.

"Now let's get back to work,"

Snape commanded.

Voldemort turned on his heel and headed back to the tent, where he knew Harry had surely heard every heated word. What Voldemort would say to him now, he had no idea.

Snape caught up,

"Been looking for a way to get rid of that annoying little prick since he came aboard."

Voldemort murmured,

"Thank you."

Snape nodded but captured Voldemort's arm tightly,

"Don't make a liar of me."

"I won't."

"You go to the ship. I'll bring Potter aboard."

Voldemort wanted to argue but couldn't, not after what Snape had just done for him. Perhaps it would give him time to figure out what he wanted to say to Harry.

Or what he could say.

They ferried supplies on board, including anything salvaged from the east beach, and as the sun rose in the sky, merciless as ever, Voldemort once again stood on the deck of his ship, hands clasped behind his back, Harry at his side, tantalizingly close.

Harry stared toward the wisps of black smoke still rising in the distance, quiet as he'd been when they'd leaned into each other and that tree, gathering their strength between kisses.

"I killed a man…"

Harry murmured after a long silence, breath warm on Voldemort's neck,

"I'm… I…"

"It's normal. This guilt. Of course you're sorry you took a life."

Harry raised his head, eyes clear,

"That's just it. I'm not. He would have taken mine. He almost did. And I'm not sorry I stopped him."

Voldemort traced the blossoming bruises on Harry's throat with his fingertips, trying to quell the simmering rage and terror and helplessness.

He swallowed thickly,

"Nor am I. It's the way of this world. You had no choice."

He tried to imagine what was going through Harry's head, behind his furrowed brow.

"Even if you could have outrun him—"

"I wouldn't have tried. I probably could have. But he'd have sounded the alarm. Couldn't risk it. I had to stop him. I couldn't risk you."

Voldemort had been powerless to do anything but kiss him.

The livid bruises on Harry's throat were purple now, and Voldemort remembered how he'd left his own marks on that pale flesh when Harry had first come aboard. Shame flooded him, becoming a deluge as he thought of the insults he'd spat yesterday. All lies, lies, lies.

Harry deserved so much better.

He deserved the quiet existence Voldemort knew he could never have for himself, his pathetic dreams of leaving the sea and sword laughable in the face of all the fresh death he'd wrought—fire and blood and wringing the life from men with his bare hands.

He'd blamed Albus Dumbledore, but the truth was undoubtedly laid bare now. He was a monster, and he'd chosen it. He'd allowed bitterness and anger to reshape him, and now he must accept the consequences.

The sails were unfurled, the wind easing The Damned Death Eater away from the beach where Fletcher ranted and raved, his curses echoing across the water. Voldemort smiled sharply. Perhaps it would have been more merciful to kill the man quickly, but Voldemort had never pretended he wasn't vindictive.

He called out,

"Mr. Rookwood."

Rookwood turned, all eyes on Voldemort, ready for his command,

"Set the course for Godric's Hollow."

"Aye, Captain!"

Before Harry could say a thing, Voldemort took hold of his arm and propelled him down the ladder and into the cabin, where books were stacked on the floor, his paltry belongings needing to be put back to rights, the massive desk still chained down for the careening. This little room was his home, and it was foolish to think he could find another. Snape was right. Men like them didn't get to leave the mayhem and bloodshed behind. He wouldn't permit Harry to follow the same path.

No matter how badly he wanted to keep him close—to say to hell with the ransom and face those consequences as well—the image of Harry bathed in blood would not release him. Even though Harry reached for him now as Voldemort backed out the door.

"Wait. You must know my feelings are genuine. Don't tell me you're listening to what Fletcher said! Yes, perhaps when we began, I thought I could improve my odds. Surely you know now—"

"Our time is at an end. I will secure the ransom for my crew. I must. And you must stay safe."

He kept Harry at arm's length with a firm hand and gripped the door handle with the other.

"I'm sorry for the things I said. You're not a whore. Nor an imbecile. The farthest thing from it."

He closed the door and turned the key decisively, ignoring Harry's pounding and plea that they speak. Voldemort hadn't earned peace, but if it was the last thing he did, he would see Harry have his chance at it.


	41. Chapter 41

"It's time."

Voldemort stood inside the cabin door, Harry already hurtling toward him from where he'd been pacing by the dark windows, a force of nature as he barrelled straight into his arms, reaching around to shove the door closed.

"No. Not like this. You've left me in here all bloody day, and we must speak. I don't want to go. I can't live on Godric's Hollow and marry Ginny Weasley. I can't do that man's bidding… I won't."

He shook his head, desperation shining in wild emerald eyes,

"But it's more than that."

He leaned in closer, fingers digging into Voldemort's flesh,

"I want to be with you. I _must_ be with you."

Voldemort's chest constricted painfully, allowing the dream of a future bright with Harry's smile to take hold for a moment, allowing the idea of peace and _joy_ to flicker through him before he snuffed it out,

"No. This isn't…"

"What? Is this the part where you hurl more cruel taunts you don't mean? I don't care how mad it is, I want to be with you. And I _know_ you want to be with me."

With effort, he pried Harry's fingers loose and stepped back, keeping him at a distance with hands firm on his shoulders,

"And you'll what? Join me in a life of piracy? You don't want that."

"No, I don't."

But before Voldemort could say that settled it, Harry surged forward, wrapping his arms around his waist, peering up so earnestly that he couldn't push him away. Harry said,

"You don't want to be a pirate either. You never did."

He sucked in a breath,

"But I would do it if it meant being at your side. I want to stir in your arms at dawn and yield to you at night. I want the freedom to spend our days as we wish, without judgment. In as much peace as we can muster, wherever that may be."

His heart thumped. It was too good to be possible,

"You don't mean that. Not really."

"You truly think I'm lying? Wrapping you around my finger, like Fletcher said? After all this?"

He squeezed his arms around his waist, gaze imploring,

"I admit that when I first lay with you, it crossed my mind. How could it not? You'd threatened to kill me. My sister. I thought it might be more difficult for you if we grew closer. But I always wanted you. That was always true. It always will be."

Through the door, Snape shouted,

"Captain! We're ready for the exchange! Bring the prisoner to the deck!"

He burst in and stumbled to a stop, blinking at them. He huffed, exasperation clear,

"Enough of this!"

_Enough._

But Harry held fast, gaze steady…challenging,

"Will you still gut me like a fish if he doesn't pay?"

Part of him wanted to retreat and roar a false threat like a pirate captain should, to not give a damn about this young man from another world, whom he never should have touched. Whom he never should have allowed to touch him. Harry whispered,

"I know you won't… I've known it for weeks. This is real between us. You can get the ransom from my mentor, and we can meet somewhere in a few weeks' time. We can be together. You can leave this life."

"Captain!"

Snape shouted as he took hold of Harry and jerked him out of his arms as a red flare of rage boiled through him and he shouted,

"Let go of him!"

Snape's eyes widened, and he stumbled back, letting go of Harry and lifting his palms,

"I'm trying to stop you from being swept up in this nonsense. As sincere as young Mr. Potter might be in this moment, it is a fantasy. The gentry don't run away with pirates."

Harry sputtered,

"You don't know a thing about me! You don't know…"

"What I know is that we need the ransom!"

Snape glared at Harry, then took a step towards him, beseeching,

"I have supported you in this as far as I can. I helped quell that mutiny, but my first duty must be to the men. They have been promised for a month. They are owed. It is _time._ Enough of this balderdash."

When he looked to Harry, a vision of him covered in blood took hold, flooding his gut with acid. He would only drag him into the abyss. He had to do everything he could to keep Harry safe.

Harry shook his head,

"Don't listen to him!"

Gathering his strength with a deep inhalation, he turned and took his coat off the hook on the hull wall, shrugging the hot leather over his shoulders. He tied the red sash around his waist, then strapped on his belt and weapons, the heat of Harry's angry gaze a horrible itch on his skin.

He opened the desk drawer and plucked out his rings, pushing them over his knuckles. Up on the main deck, a voice called,

"Launch approaching!"

He faced Harry, who watched him with jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. He asked,

"Don't you want to dress properly? Your waistcoat? Shoes and stockings?"

He gritted out,

"No. Let's get on with it."

He turned, then whirled back,

"You're many things, but I never imagined coward was one of them."

"All right, up you go, brat!"

Snape hauled him out of the cabin, and he followed, his boots thudding on the deck, blood rushing in his ears. He must withstand this. Harry would thank him once he was back on solid ground, warm and coddled, safe and sound.

He narrowed his gaze on Godric's Hollow beyond the harbor, where ships of varying sizes bobbed, none big enough to carry many guns. In the black night, firelight dotted the hillside, fanning out, but not nearly as much as he'd expected. Under the sun it would be easier to judge, but the colony did appear quite lacking.

From the approaching launch, a man called,

"Captain Voldemort?"

He stood at the bow,

"Aye."

"We must see Harry Potter, alive and unharmed."

He reached back for Harry's arm, but Harry jerked free and strode to stand beside him,

"I'm here. Unharmed."

Squinting into the wooden boat, which was rowed by two men, the speaker perched in the bow, he asked,

"Where the hell is the governor? My demand was that he meet us. Alone."

"Governor Dumbledore is taken ill with worry. He has been abed for days."

The messenger's voice cracked,

"I am here as his representative."

He snorted,

"Yes, I'm sure he's _quite_ ill. Get up here."

While he'd looked forward to seeing the whoreson again… to lording his revenge, all that truly mattered was the sack this sweating, quivering emissary held, and whether it contained the ransom. That was all that _could_ matter.

_Our time is up. This was always where we would end. He deserves far better than me. He'll thank me for this before long._

Yet Harry's plea echoed in this mind. Was it possible to have the money _and_ Harry? Right that minute, could he have both?

It would be a battle, but it would likely be a battle regardless, even though they could spy no soldiers in wait and they were out of range of any cannons on land. Excited apprehension vibrated through him.

They could try.

The messenger wore a ridiculously puffy wig and was dressed in fine silks that were too big for his frame. He climbed up the rope ladder they unfurled, trembling as he threw a leg over the rail and boarded on the port side. He held out the sack, and Snape took it, opening it and snapping his fingers for a lantern.

He couldn't breathe. He reached for Harry, taking his shoulder. Harry panted softly, his eyes imploring in the spray of lantern light. He could keep him safe, couldn't he? In a life away from the sea's turmoil, he could. He _would_!

They had the money… if he kept Harry too, or if they ran, or arranged to meet…

A pistol exploded in the night, and he whipped his head around, reaching for his cutlass, then gritting his teeth at the followed curse and one of the men shouting,

"'T'was only a misfire!"

As he opened his mouth to order calm, the emissary lunged toward him with wild, spooked eyes, and Harry was suddenly in front of him, knocking him back.


	42. Chapter 42

They had the money… if he kept Harry too, or if they ran, or arranged to meet…

A pistol exploded in the night, and he whipped his head around, reaching for his cutlass, then gritting his teeth at the followed curse and one of the men shouting,

"'T'was only a misfire!"

As he opened his mouth to order calm, the emissary lunged toward him with wild, spooked eyes, and Harry was suddenly in front of him, knocking him back.

He stumbled and tried to make sense of it all, Harry's weight sagging in his arms, the emissary shrieking on the end of Snape's cutlass as it ran him through.

"Captain! Sails!"

Another voice shouted,

"Brigantine from the west! Must have been hiding around the other side."

A pause, then,

"Looks like eighteen guns!"

Snape had the sack open and a lantern in his hand,

"Money's here. Captain! We must away!"

But Harry couldn't seem to get his feet under him, leaning heavily against him. There was something in the dying emissary's outstretched hand…

A dagger. Its blade dark with blood in the flickering lantern light.

His cry was distant and hoarse, as if it came from another throat,

"No!"

He lowered Harry to the deck and tore at his shirt, red staining the linen in a widening circle. Pressing at the stab wound in Harry's gut, he screamed,

"Ollivander!"

He peered down into that dear face, already frighteningly pale,

"Stay with me. Harry!"

Harry gazed up at him, moaning, eyes wide.

Ollivander dropped to his knees before them, leaning over to inspect the wound, too much blood flowing from it. He shook his head,

"He'll die if he stays aboard."

He took Harry's hand, threading their fingers together, keeping his eyes locked on him for fear he would be gone the next time he looked down,

"There must be something you can do!"

"He needs better surgeons and a safe, clean place, not to bleed to death on a stinking pirate ship…especially one about to do battle!"

Ollivander grabbed his coat and leaned close, lifting his chin roughly, hissing,

"If you care for him, let him go. Or he'll be dead before morning."

Harry gasped, twitching,

"No… I…stay…"

With one last, lingering look into those emerald eyes, he ripped his fingers from Harry's desperate grasp and somehow pushed to his feet without his knees giving way.

Down toward the launch, he shouted,

"Potter is coming!"

To the crew, he ordered,

"Lower him carefully, Mr. Lestrange, Mr. Avery. Everyone else, ready to make sail!"

The approaching brigantine would be the death of them all otherwise.

Harry coughed and gasped, fingers grasping at his ankle, fingers sliding on the leather. He needed to tear himself free, but he stood rooted, even once Lestrange and Avery scooped up Harry, who wailed in agony as they lowered him in the canvas hammock used for cargo.

He couldn't move to look over the rail, standing frozen as Snape shouted,

"They've got him! Now get us the hell out of here, men! Don't let them get their broadsides around, or that's the end."

Harry's screams echoed across the water even as the sails caught the wind, the brig gaining. He finally turned away from Godric's Hollow, a ragged hole in his chest as if the blade had found its target.

At the helm, he shouted orders and kept his gaze forward on the midnight horizon, fingernails gouging the wheel so deep the wood slivered his flesh. Harry had to live, and _The Death Eater_ had to outrun the brig, which flew the Union Jack with the white crest denoting privateers.

No other options existed.

As the first round of cannon fire exploded in the night, he prayed to a Godless universe that at least Harry would survive.


	43. Chapter 43

If he was dead, he was apparently in heaven, since Luna was there. Harry couldn't seem to open his eyes for more than a heartbeat, but he'd spotted his sister's clear blue eyes and blonde curls, felt her tender ministrations, and heard her soft lullabies and a babe's cry.

Was he imagining it all? Perhaps they were dead, and Harry had joined them. But if he'd met his maker, surely he'd have been doomed to the underworld for his many sins.

Harry knew he should likely regret said sins and repent, but couldn't seem to muster the will, even though death had him in its sights. It seemed he was alive, considering the torment searing his gut every time he breathed in…or out, for that matter.

So, all the time. The dagger that had breached him felt as though it was still there, digging in mercilessly, its steel viciously cold yet scorching all the same.

The heat built, and he imagined flames licking at his face and chest, and of course his belly, which was only agony. The fire grew into a hungry inferno, and he barely made out Luna's voice after a time, his eyes far too heavy. There was another voice too, a young woman he didn't recognize who spoke with a calming rhythm.

But the voice he heard loudest was one he knew must be only in his mind. Voldemort cried his name so fervently, a heartrending plea,

"_Harry!"_

Moaning and delirious, soaked with sweat yet shivering, racked with chills, Harry reached for Voldemort's damn boots, the gold tips slipping away beneath his fingers as he grasped over and over.

He was unable to do anything else as he huddled there on the deck, trapped and alone, Voldemort cruelly out of reach.

"Harry? Please, please. Come back to me."

Groaning, he tried to open his lead-weighted eyes. It was Luna who called for him now, and the thought that she might be in need tugged him from the roiling depths. Blinking, he glimpsed her pale, pinched face.

"Yes, that's it! Open your eyes."

Where were they? He tried to remember the last time he'd been with Luna… the merchant ship, pirates boarding… _Voldemort._ No, they weren't there. It hadn't all been a dream; that was impossible. What he'd shared with Voldemort had been real; it had to have been.

So how… The ransom. Godric's Hollow. The messenger lunging for Voldemort, dagger suddenly in his grasp, the blade sinking to the hilt in Harry's belly, pain burning white-hot and then terrifyingly cold.

The world was a blur. A white ceiling with a pattern etched into it, swirls and loops. Turning his head felt monumental, but it was worth it to behold Luna's tearful smile. He'd always hated to see her cry. He tried to reach over and wipe her tears, but his hand wouldn't cooperate.

"Luna?"

His throat was a desert, nothing but stones and sand.

"Yes. Shh, it's all right. You're safe. Here, drink. You must drink."

She held a glass to his lips, lifting his head for him. The tepid water burned going down.

"Where?"

He was in a bed softer than any he could remember, but likely his memory was short at the moment. Beyond Luna, sunlight streamed through an open window, the pale curtains hardly moving in the sticky air.

"We're on Godric's Hollow. You're safe at home with us."

Her smile faltered, but she lifted her chin.

"What is it?"

"Nothing… nothing. It can wait. Oh, Harry. We thought we'd lost you again. I'm not sure how much you remember. That despicable pirate returned you with a grievous wound, but don't worry… justice will be served."

His heart seized,

"What do you mean? Where is he?"

Harry tried to sit up, his body trembling, traitorous limbs too weak.

"Don't try to move! Please, darling. The stab wound was bad enough. Just when we thought you were returning to us, infection set in. It's been two weeks, and the surgeon didn't hold out much hope at all. But I did, and Ginny did."

"Who?"

Luna laughed, tired lines creasing her face,

"Your betrothed, of course. It will all come back to you soon. You've been mired in this fever, but it's broken now. Ginny will be overjoyed when she returns this morning."

It took too much effort to speak, so he didn't bother addressing the issue of Ginny Weasley. Darkness had begun to close in at the edges of his vision, but he croaked,

"Voldemort? Where is he?"

Pressing a cool cloth to his forehead, she soothed,

"It's all right. That vile man can't hurt you now."

A scream tore at Harry's raw throat, but he was falling under the surface, dark waves closing over him.

Candles flickered as Harry focused on the bundle cradled in Luna's arms. He vaguely recalled hearing a babe's cries at some point and realized Luna's belly had been flat when he'd woken before.

He was able to lift his hand this time, and Luna jerked her head up, exclaiming. The baby wailed. A young dark haired woman hurried in and took the child while Luna helped Harry drink more water.

Resting back against the downy pillows, Harry tried to recall what they'd discussed earlier, his heart plummeting as it hit him,

"Where is he?"

"Who? Father? He was in earlier with the surgeon. Of course he's been worried sick. We all have."

His gaze returned to the young woman, who lingered, jiggling the baby and cooing to it,

"Ginny?"

The woman replied,

"The babe's name is Grace, m'lord."

Luna laughed awkwardly,

"This is Cecily. The wet nurse. Ginny returned earlier, but you slept for hours. She'll be back in the morning, don't fret."

She rose and spoke to Cecily in low tones Harry didn't try to decipher, his mind turning over the possibilities of Voldemort's fate. Cecily left with the baby, and Luna retook her seat. She wore a blue dress that had seen better days, although jewels sparkled in her ears.

He wanted to demand more information but remembered his manners in time,

"You're both doing well? She's beautiful. Grace."

Luna beamed,

"She is, isn't she? And yes, we're wonderful. Neville and I couldn't be happier."

Her smile dimmed,

"Father would have preferred a grandson, of course, but next time, we hope."

"Albus should just go and kill himself."

She gasped, a hand flying up to cover her mouth. Then she craned her head to peer out the open doorway. Apparently seeing no one, she leaned in, trying to hide her mirth,

"You have been on a pirate ship indeed."

Worry gnawed,

"Where is he? Captain Voldemort. I must know."

Luna brushed back his damp hair,

"I told you, that monster will never trouble you again. You needn't be frightened. Oh, Harry. Was it awful? Of course it was, why am I asking that? Forgive me."

She took a shuddery breath,

"I can't tell you how relieved I am to have you home. I thought I'd never see you again."

"I'm fine, Luna."

He rubbed his face, which had been shaved smooth. Probably at his Albus's order, since a gentleman must always be respectable even when at death's door gripped in a fever.

A dark-skinned woman with greying hair knocked at the open door and entered with a steaming bowl of broth. Too weak to feed himself, Harry had no choice but to submit as Luna lifted the spoon to his lips.

After they coddled him like _he_ was the infant… and despite his resentment, he couldn't deny his helplessness… his eyes grew heavy again, but his heart raced, the ache in his wounded belly throbbing.

"Luna… What happened to the pirate?"

"Father had hired a privateer ship to battle the pirates, since we have no redcoats here. He'd hoped to sink them right there in the harbour, but they led the privateers on a merry chase. All for naught… Captain Voldemort is soon to face the gallows. So, you see? Nothing to worry about. You needn't ever think on that abominable creature again."

He was certain the dagger had returned, twisting into him, stealing his breath. Luna sat straighter, her eyes widening,

"Harry? No, lie back. Don't thrash, or you'll reopen the wound."

She turned her head, calling,

"Judith!"

The older woman returned, and Harry's mind was buzzing too much to make out what she and Luna were saying as they held him down. Soon they were administering bitter drops of medicine, and he gagged, gasping.

"There, there."

Luna pressed another cold cloth to his head,

"Sleep again, darling. You need your rest."

What he needed was to save Voldemort, to see him safe and happy and whole, but the black claimed him once more.


	44. Chapter 44

Thunder rumbled, and Harry wasn't sure of the hour. The light beyond the windows was muted. He focused on the young woman sitting beside his bed, running a needle and colourful thread through material with nimble fingers, a candle beside her in the dimness, her ruffled silk dress a dusky rose.

She had bright red hair but wasn't the wet nurse, whose name he couldn't recall. She certainly wasn't Luna. He stared at the needlepoint, the design some kind of flower.

"Ginny?"

Her head shot up, and a wide, slightly horsey smile broke out over her face,

"Harry! How do you feel? Let me fetch Luna and send a messenger for the surgeon. He was here earlier, but you were sleeping very soundly. We must call him back before the storm hits. Are you thirsty?"

At his nod, she helped him drink. Her forehead was high, brown eyes bright and kind.

He felt as though he'd been sleeping for weeks, which he supposed he had. At least his head was clearer, and when he tried to lift his hands, they cooperated. Although the stab wound ached like it was open and bleeding, his boost in energy was an encouraging sign.

Before she could call anyone, he asked,

"When is the trial? For Captain Voldemort?"

Ginny opened her mouth but then closed it again, glancing to the door, which stood open. She whispered,

"I don't think they want you troubled with it. At least not until you give your testimony."

"Testimony?"

"At the upcoming trial, such as it will be with our…limited resources. The pirate is being transported back here."

His heart hammered dully,

"From where?"

"I'm not sure. But apparently, he and his men led the privateers on a chase all the way to Hispaniola. The pirate ship was damaged and listing badly, but some of the crew escaped ashore, to a peninsula. Apparently, the captain created a diversion, allowing his men to flee. I suppose there is some honour amongst thieves after all."

Harry could only nod, the faces of the crew running through his mind. Who had survived? Dour Mr. Snape? Lestrange?

"When is he arriving?

"I don't know. A hurricane might be brewing."

He registered that she'd mentioned a storm earlier. Indeed, a gust rattled the windowpanes,

"Is he injured?"

Ginny had glanced at the windows, her lip between her teeth,

"The pirate?"

She shrugged,

"He'll be dead soon anyway."

The words were a punch to his wounded stomach. He wanted to lash out but restrained himself. It certainly wasn't this girl's fault. None of it,

"Is the courthouse nearby?"

She grimaced,

"They will merely build a platform in the town square. An actual courthouse is still to be constructed and now never will be, like most things on this wretched island."

Ginny seemed to catch herself, and she painted on a smile,

"Don't trouble yourself with any of it, my dear."

Tentatively, she took his hand, and he stared down at their linked fingers with puzzlement.

How strange it was that this pleasant-enough girl he'd woken to was his betrothed. He burned to tell her immediately that they'd never marry, but he only listened as she said,

"I can't tell you how happy I am that you're alive. We'll be able to build a good life back in Jamaica once you're well enough to travel. Or England, even."

"What of this place?"

Ginny's cheeks flushed,

"Don't worry yourself about it. My father will see us set up nicely elsewhere. No matter how stubborn your father is. As I said, nothing to worry about! Luna is lovely, and she's told me so much about you. I feel I know you already."

"Uh…"

This was the part where he should say something kind in return, but he could only blink at her, his mind blank. Luna appeared, thank goodness,

"Oh! You're awake again. Mr. Taggart is here."

The tall, balding man had much to say about how lucky Harry was and how the wound nearly killed him outright, never mind the infection. Ginny and Luna stood back, giving the surgeon room, but Albus strode right in and practically elbowed him aside before demanding

"Are you finally in your right mind?"

Harry blinked up at him, seeing him again for the first time in years. The curls of his white wig were perfectly powdered, and his pale shirt, waistcoat, jacket, and breeches weren't creased despite the syrupy heat.

Harry had remembered him as an old man but saw now that he was still relatively young. His face was lined as he neared fifty years, but his spine was straight, a sharp vibrancy about him that called to mind a knife's edge.

"Yes, Sir"

Albus seemed slightly mollified,

"Well, good. Since you were almost murdered by that pirate, we've been eager for you to recover."

"I… Thank you. But he didn't stab me. Captain Voldemort. It was your emissary."

Albus laughed like the crack of a whip,

"Nonsense. Your mind is clearly still muddled. Surgeon?"

"Oh yes, some confusion is quite natural. Don't trouble yourself, m'lord."

"But I'm telling you, it wasn't the captain or any of his men who injured me."

Mr. Taggart leaned over Harry,

"Now, now. Don't agitate yourself. Too much laudanum will slow your recovery."

Harry cringed at the thought of the bitter medicine and the powerless, long sleep it brought. He needed his rest, but also required his wits about him,

"I simply want the truth to be known."

Albus stared at him imperiously,

"The truth is that one of the most dreaded pirates in the New World kidnapped you and almost killed you once he had his ransom. They are a scourge that must be destroyed. All those devils care for is money."

He glanced around the room,

"Of course, I would have paid any sum to see you returned."

As the surgeon and Ginny nodded in agreement, Luna piped up with,

"I thought Neville said it was mostly counterfeit anyway."

Albus gritted his teeth,

"Regardless, Captain Voldemort shall hang. That is all that matters."

Belatedly, he added,

"And that Harry is safe."

Sighing, he seemed to soften, coming closer to the bed to rest his hand on Harry's arm,

"We were greatly concerned for your welfare."

Despite everything, Harry still wanted to believe that Albus cared, cringing at the childish longing welling up. A bewigged man appeared in the doorway,

"I'm sorry to interrupt. Governor, we have a problem."

"What is it?"

Walter snapped,

"Can't you see I'm tending to my son, who was nearly murdered by pirates?"

"More wood is needed to board up windows on the main street as the storm approaches."

"Then get more bloody wood! Why should I be concerned with such trivial matters?"

"There aren't enough men left to cut it. As it transpires, several transports left yesterday for Jamaica in advance of the storm. More citizens fleeing."

Clearly all was not well in the least on Godric's Hollow. Harry wanted to ask for the details, but didn't wish to anger Albus any further at the moment.

"We'll need to board up our windows as well, won't we?"

Luna asked.

With a tight smile, Albus said,

"Everything is in hand. Don't worry, my dear. Rest up, Harry. When the storm has passed, the pirate will arrive and his trial will begin. Your ordeal will soon be at an official end."

Albus strode out before Harry could argue, and the surgeon banished the ladies to examine Harry's wound thoroughly, poking and prodding, humming to himself from time to time.

Finally, he said,

"It's healing well, now that the infection has passed. You'll be up and about soon enough."

He glanced at the darkening sky through the closest window,

"Rest up, and by the time the sun returns, you'll be out of bed."

If his sluggish mind understood it all correctly, the storm's passing would herald Voldemort's arrival. Harry nodded,

"Yes. I'll certainly be on my feet by then."


	45. Chapter 45

Neville nearly carried him down to a small, windowless chamber on the ground floor that night, but Harry had taken a few steps, at least. Granted, the pain threatened to bring up the broth and small amount of bread he'd eaten, but he'd kept his food down. While it might have been a tiny victory, he'd take it.

After Neville had gone and Luna fretted over Harry, he asked,

"How about some _Don Quixote_? I haven't heard that in years."

Luna winced as glass shattered in the distance, the upper floor of the house in particular taking a lashing from the storm. The wind howled, and Harry wondered for the hundredth time where Voldemort was and if he suffered.

Would the privateers treat him fairly? He had once been one of them, and if their letter of marque was revoked for any reason, they would suddenly be deemed pirates too. Perhaps Voldemort could appeal to their reason. Harry didn't hold out much hope, but it was all he could cling to.

"Yes, a good choice. I'll fetch it from the library."

Luna left the door ajar, and Harry listened to the household staff bustle about.

Albus was holed up in his study, the baby and wet nurse in the sitting room, where Luna would sleep as well. The upper floor had been deemed unsafe, even with boards hastily nailed over the windows.

Earlier, Luna had insisted she wasn't tired in the least, and Harry was happy to hear her read to him again while the baby slept for a few hours. He needed something… anything… to keep his mind from fixating on Voldemort.

_Have they hurt him? Is he angry with me? Does he love me as I love him? I do love him, more than anything. Is he afraid? Does he despair?_

Harry had last beheld him much as he had the very first time: Voldemort wearing his costume… his armour… that announced him a fearsome pirate king. The rings on his fingers and slash of red around his waist, the steel of his cutlass winking on his hip; the coat that acted almost as a cape.

Yet he would remember Voldemort not as the myth, but the man… scarred and tired, passionate and tender. The raw terror on his face as he'd uttered Harry's name aloud, leaning over him, shielding him, holding his fingers so tightly before tearing himself away.

"All right, here we are."

Luna jumped as a gust of wind shrieked, rain battering the house. From what little Harry had seen of the two-story building, it was solidly constructed, with at least a dozen rooms.

How would the rest of the colony fare? From the sound of it, there was little left. Luna pulled her winged chair close to the narrow bed, which was more of a cot. She cleared her throat and began.

Her familiar voice and cadence soothed Harry's raw edges enough that he could unclench his fists and breathe evenly. Luna read into the night as Mother Nature railed, threatening at times, it seemed, to tear the house from its foundations.

Harry closed his eyes and tried to focus only on Luna's warm, familiar voice. As she read, the wind and rain keened. He shivered, the earlier heat chased away.

Soaked to the skin, Neville stuck his head in, water dripping into his eyes from his floppy curls. He had an appearance not unlike a massive shaggy dog. Luna waved him in, assuring him the baby was sleeping comfortably, at least until the next time she woke wailing, as babies inevitably would.

"You must promise not to go out again!"

Luna said,

"Please stay here until this passes."

Neville sighed, wiping water from his face,

"The remaining people are in need, and there aren't enough hands. It feels cowardly to hole up here with the women and children."

He looked guiltily to Harry,

"What I mean to say is…"

"I know,"

Harry assured him,

"I take no offense. I possess the strength of a kitten at the moment."

"Father is here, and he's not infirm,"

Luna said. Neville raised his eyebrows,

"Regretfully, your father is not a man I aspire to emulate."

He took her hand,

"Forgive me for speaking so frankly."

She sighed and plopped back into her chair,

"No apology necessary. We all know Father's…limitations. Which have become all too clear."

Harry asked,

"Neville, what do you mean, the remaining people? What is happening on this island? There's something going on that no one wants to explain. I know the colony was struggling, but it sounds as if it has collapsed. I assure you I can withstand the cold truth."

Sharing a look with Luna, Neville said,

"Let me get another chair."

When he was settled, the door pulled halfway shut, he nodded to Luna, who leaned toward the bed, her voice low.

"Oh, Harry. It's a _disaster._ They say the terrain is all wrong. Too sandy in some places, too rocky in others. Far too hilly. The men who initially proposed this colony to England were fools. Overconfident that no matter the landscape, it could be moulded and tamed to do our bidding."

Neville added,

"To be fair to your father, that was not his doing. The rest, however…"

Luna sighed,

"Father wasted untold amounts of money insisting on planting crops that wouldn't take. The colonists have left in droves, and the rumour from Whitehall is that the Crown is abandoning this place and cutting its losses. Father has failed in every conceivable way. He hasn't admitted it yet, but we're going back to England. Or perhaps somewhere else in the New World. There's simply no alternative."

"He and Mr. Weasley are on shaky ground,"

Neville said, unbuttoning his wet jacket,

"Arthur gave up a successful venture in Jamaica, expecting more power here than he had in Kingston. If not for your engagement to Ginny, I fear their partnership would dissolve completely. Albus would have had you married when you were barely conscious if Luna hadn't spoken out so strongly against it."

Harry's heart skipped,

"You don't think I should marry her, Luna?"

She blinked,

"Oh, of course you should. She's an absolute treasure. Isn't she, Neville?"

"Yes. Very level-headed, and a kind soul. She'd make a fine wife for any man."

_Any but me._

Luna added,

"She deserves a proper wedding in a church, wearing her fine dress. And surely you'll want to be awake and in your right mind on your wedding day."

"I… Yes,"

He had to agree.

"There's no telling now when this pirate will arrive for his trial,"

Neville said,

"Your father had already ordered the gallows constructed, which was a complete waste of time. Not to mention lumber."

He shook his head,

"These winds are like nothing I've ever seen. I fear there will be very little left when the dust settles, as it were. They should have just tried him in Kingston, but your father insisted he preside, as if it will somehow legitimize this place and save it. His pride will be the death of us all if we're not careful."

Luna sighed,

"Yes. He was determined that his colony would be the most like England, no matter how impractical that might be. All show and no substance."

"One wonders why he ever wanted to leave England in the first place."

Neville grimaced,

"Of course, as a fifth son of an earl myself, I understand wanting to strike out in the New World. There should be more opportunities here."

He glanced at Luna and lowered his voice further,

"In fact, Mr. Weasley and I have had some discussions. He still has many connections in Jamaica and a respected name in shipping. There could be opportunities for us there. You, me, Harry, and Ginny."

Luna stared at him,

"But… But what of Father? We couldn't just…"

"Why not?"

Harry asked,

"Why should our fates be controlled by his whims? Haven't they already been long enough?"

"Yes,"

Neville hissed,

"Quite long enough."

He took Luna's hand again, holding it between his own,

"My dear, your loyalty is one of your best qualities. But the time has come when we must remove ourselves from your father's shadow. With haste."

"He's right, Luna. You know he is."

Tears glistened in her eyes,

"Yes."

She swallowed hard,

"I must check on Grace. Please excuse me."

When she was gone, Neville rubbed his face,

"You agree, then? That we shall leave Godric's Hollow as soon as this storm and trial are over."

He looked up as another shriek of wind battered the windows,

"Whatever unfolds, I feel strongly that we must try our fortunes away from Albus's influence."

Harry said a quick prayer for Voldemort and nodded,

"I couldn't agree more."


	46. Chapter 46

He'd slept fitfully for a time, and Luna had returned in the night, the storm still raging, dark circles under her eyes. They didn't speak of their Albus or Neville's nascent plan. Luna had always been practical, and while she sometimes needed to brood on an idea for a time, she would accept good sense.

They had simply shared a tired smile, and she'd briefly clasped his hand before again opening _Don Quixote_. Sometime later, the candle guttering, she read:

"_I was born free, and that I might live in freedom I chose the solitude of the fields; in the trees of the mountains I find society, the clear waters of the brooks are my mirrors, and to the trees and waters I make known my thoughts and charms. I am a fire afar off, a sword laid aside."_

He couldn't catch his breath. Was this what Voldemort wanted, despite his protestations? _A sword laid aside._ If Harry could somehow free him, would Voldemort leave piracy behind and build a life with him?

Despite the storm's fury, reminding him that there was no easy path, Harry yearned for fields and trees, clear waters and freedom. And Voldemort had confessed it once as well.

"_I could find a quiet island. Build a home strong enough to withstand the summer storms. Fish and farm. Stay close to safe harbour."_

"Darling?"

Luna asked,

"Are you feeling unwell?"

"No. Fine."

_Is he safe now?_

She pressed her hand to his forehead,

"Are you certain? You were trembling."

"I'm sure. I… I was thinking of the future."

Luna squeezed his shoulder,

"There's no reason to worry. Albus always lands on his feet, and…"

She sighed,

"Well, you heard Neville. It seems we very well might have another avenue open to us. We shall make the best of it. Mr. Weasley will see you and Ginny well settled."

She frowned at his silence,

"What is it?"

"Ginny…. I can't marry her."

Luna stared in clear shock,

"Surely you don't find her lacking? She has been so steadfast. I know I'm getting ahead of myself, since you've only just met her, really. But when you spend more time with her, I'm certain…"

"It won't matter. I cannot marry her. Luna, I don't love her."

She shook her head with affectionate exasperation,

"Well, not _yet._ You've had no time together. Love will come, I'm sure of it."

Harry's throat tightened, along with his chest,

"It's impossible."

"Why on Earth is that?"

Glancing to the door, she went and closed it firmly before returning to her chair and folding her hands,

"She is a wonderful match. Practical, to be sure, what with her dowry, but I've grown to love her as a sister already. Truly, she is good and kind. And she possesses a certain…understated beauty."

Luna's brows drew together, her mouth turning down,

"You've never struck me as a man whose head is turned overmuch by fancy faces. I hope you don't mean to reject her on superficial grounds without taking the care to really know her."

"It's not that. She is quite pretty enough. I don't care about that."

"Then what is the issue? This has been planned for months. You are promised to each other. Our fathers have agreed."

She laughed,

"It's not as if you're in love with someone else."

His throat closed completely, and he had to turn his head away from Luna's sharp gaze.

Her fingers were firm on his chin,

"Harry!"

She hissed,

"What is this? Don't tell me all those times you scampered away to fields and forest it was because you were meeting someone?"

A gasp escaped her lips and she pressed a hand to her chest,

"Are you pining? Do you have a secret sweetheart?"

"Please,"

He whispered, barely holding the agony at bay,

"I can't tell you."

Voldemort had left him, yet he couldn't stop hearing his name finally tumble from Voldemort's lips. The way Voldemort had clung to his fingers, the wild fear in his eyes, all artifice stripped before he allowed Harry to be torn away.

"But you can. Of course you can. Anything, my dear. Tell me. Who is the lady?"

In whom could he confide if not Luna? His breath stuttered. Without warning, he stood at the precipice. Outside, torrents of rain streamed down, and in the little windowless room they were as alone as they could be…perhaps as alone as they ever would be again.

His sister watched him with concern, her eyes imploring. Before he could talk himself out of it, he stripped away the last vestiges of the disguise he'd worn since they were children,

"There is no lady. I'm a sodomite."

The words hung there as the wind keened. For a terrible moment, as Luna stared with wide eyes, Harry thought she would abandon him and pretend he'd never spoken at all. Then she sat back, her gaze going distant. He could barely get her name out,

"Luna?"

"I should have known. I should have seen this. Perhaps I did."

She spoke absently, as if to herself. He had to ask, although his stomach churned, fearing the answer,

"I know it's unnatural. A sin. Do you hate me?"

Her gaze snapped to his, and she bolted up straight,

"What? Oh heavens. Never."

She gripped his hand,

"_Never._ You are my brother."

Blinking back tears, she said,

"More than that. We were always such good chums, weren't we?"

Harry could only nod, his throat too thick for words. He squeezed her fingers.

She swiped at her eyes with her free hand,

"All right."

She nodded to herself, mind clearly working, digesting this revelation,

"Yes. All right."

Her face creased,

"Do _you_ think it a sin? Does it feel like one? To…be the way you are?"

"Perhaps it should, but no. I don't think it a sin anymore. I've accepted it now. I've been this way for almost as long as I can remember, and I wanted to tell you so many times."

"Oh, Harry. Surely you know I would never turn my back on you… Never."

He clung to her hand,

"I prayed you would not."

"Certainly not. No, you are my brother, and well… This is a shock. But you are not an evildoer."

"Still, it's not only my mind that's lacking. I'm not a normal man. I never shall be."

"I promised myself that I would always look after you…."

She broke off with a sudden sob, tears overflowing.

"Did I fail you?"

"No! This is no fault of yours, I promise."

He couldn't fight his own tears,

"No one could have cared for me better, Luna… Thank you."

He pushed up, ignoring the scream of pain in his gut, and pulled her into an embrace as they wept. They were all sniffles and gulping breaths, and when Luna eased back to the chair, she wiped her cheeks,

"All right. Now. Is there someone you…care for?"

Fresh tears threatened as he whispered,

"Yes."

"Yes. All right."

She laughed, slightly giddy, eyes still wet,

"I keep saying that, don't I? I'm sorry. So, this… Well, who is he? Someone from Britain? You often spent time in the woods nearest to that estate. Mr. Stanford, perhaps? He was still unmarried last I heard."

"No, it's no one from home. It's… On the ship…"

Her brows shot up,

"The merchant ship? I don't recall that you spent time with anyone in particular…"

Eyes widening, she whispered,

"You don't mean… My God, the pirate ship?"

He nodded,

"Captain Voldemort."

"The… The captain? The man who took you?"

She waited for his reply, mouth agape.

"Yes. I know what you must be thinking…"

"I don't understand. What are you saying? That you… That you and he… With a _pirate_? With that nefarious man?"

She gasped,

"When you arrived, you were quite bruised. Tell me truthfully. Did he…_ravish_ you? Force you to submit to his cruel desires?"

"No, I swear. I wanted it. I lay with him willingly."

"But it's unthinkable! Harry, it's…"

Luna pressed her hand to her chest, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

"It's terribly _thrilling_."

His heart skipped, hope blooming amid the dark muck of misery. He waited for her to continue, watching her breathe fast and shallow.

She gave a little gasp, covering her mouth again, as if shocked by herself. She lowered her hand and whispered,

"Did you truly…with that pirate captain?"

His throat felt like he'd swallowed gravel, and he sounded like it too,

"I did. I was his prisoner, granted, but I chose it of my own free will. He was… I began to know him… the real man behind the myth. I…"

Emotion choked Harry,

"I began to love him."

"Love?"

She murmured, eyes like saucers,

"I didn't think… So, it's more than simply…"

She waved her hand.

"Yes. Much more. There was tenderness and sharing. I'm not sure how to describe it."

"But he stabbed you! You almost died."

"It wasn't him, nor any of the crew. It was Albus's messenger. He tried to kill Voldemort, and I jumped between them. I couldn't bear to see him hurt."

"My goodness."

She fanned her face with her hand,

"I feel like one of those terribly fragile women who are prone to the vapors."

He sat with difficulty,

"Should I call for someone?"

He threw back the blanket, groaning as he tried to swing his legs around.

"No, hush."

She urged him back to the mattress and tucked the blanket around him,

"I've never suffered from delirium a day in my life. I shan't start now."

Exhaling a long breath, she nodded,

"All right. You love this man. Does he love you?"

Harry's stomach swooped. _Does he? Am I fooling myself most cruelly?_

"I think he might. I want to find out. I must. I want to be with him. Wake by his side, live our days like… Well, like anyone else, I suppose."

She took this in,

"I confess it's difficult to imagine. He was so fearsome!"

"It's an act. Most of it, at least. Albus forced him into that life by revoking his letter of marque unfairly years ago. And yes, he's committed many crimes. But there is more to him, I swear. Kindness and longing. He's a man like any other. Everyone sees him as a pirate…"

"Because that's what he is! A killer."

_So am I._ But Harry could not utter it aloud. If he exposed this truth as well, he'd never be able to look Luna in the face again for fear of what he'd see there.

"Yes. Without question. Yet I accept it. If that exposes a deficiency in my character, I have to accept that as well. I can't marry Ginny. I could never be a proper husband. It wouldn't be fair to her. As unnatural as it may be to desire other men, it _is_ my nature. I have made peace with it. I must find a way to have a life where I am not in misery all of my days. Hiding. Alone, even if surrounded by a family."

Her face crumpled,

"Oh, Harry. It would break my heart. No, I would never wish that for you. You should have love and comfort and happiness."

She sat back and was silent, wiping her eyes. She was quiet for so long that Harry grew sleepy. He was so easily drained, and he closed his eyes, listening to her steady breathing, her familiar presence a balm. He'd revealed his core and she hadn't turned away.

After a time, she spoke again,

"They say it's only about base desires. Two men being together. Venal and depraved. But as I think about it, I remember a case of two men in Guildford who shared a cottage. An accusation was made, and soon it was a scandal. One went to prison, the other the gallows. If I recall, there had been suspicion of them for years. _Years_. I didn't consider it at the time, but why would they have lived together for so long if there was no affection? Granted, plenty of marriages sorely lack it, but they had _chosen_ their companionship."

He opened his eyes and found Luna's full of tears again. She shook her head,

"That pirate. Father will see him hanged. And my God, you would be in such danger if the truth were discovered. They could _kill_ you for this love."

"I must stop the trial. With him, I was…whole. A worthy man. Powerful in my own way, not stupid and useless. With him, I felt I could do anything. That the world has new possibilities to be unearthed, as sea shells are by the retreating tide. That there is so much more. Unseen, but ever-present under the surface."

He remembered the roughness of Voldemort's stubble against his face countered with the softness of his lips, the wet slide of his tongue, and how Harry had wished they could kiss forever under the palm trees. How he'd felt utterly protected and cherished in the aftermath of death and destruction.

"But how on Earth will you stop the trial?"

It was a fine question, and Harry fervently wished he had the answer.


	47. Chapter 47

_Never again._

Those two words echoed, taunting him endlessly in the black belly of the privateers' brigantine. The air was dank in the small hold serving as his cell, and he was almost certain a storm brewed.

Sweat clung to his skin. His leather coat was musty and damp, the chains on his wrists pulled tight, wearing away at his festering skin where he'd uselessly attempted to pry himself loose. His feet had swelled in his boots, and he couldn't have yanked them off if he tried.

He supposed his one consolation was that he wasn't trapped in the bowels of a Royal Navy ship. From what he'd overheard before being locked away, Albus Dumbledore had hired privateers to thwart him. The navy could not be negotiated with, but privateers? Perhaps.

He had no notion of time in the blackness but for the distant bells and occasional delivery of brackish water and scraps of food. Harry's screams of agony echoed in his mind.

Why the devil had he wasted so much time keeping Harry at bay? He should have kissed him every moment he could. Now he never would again, and it tore at him with razor teeth.

Did Harry live? He prayed uselessly to any god listening that he'd survived. That he hadn't died to save his sorry life.

It played out again and again in his memory: Harry hurling himself in front of that blade, accepting its grievous wound without a second thought.

He hadn't believed he could love again, and in that moment he'd known how wrong he'd been. How deeply love could truly gash, crippling him. He offered bargain after bargain to the universe, promising up anything… _everything_… in return for Harry's safety.

To not know Harry's fate was torture, the misery waking him from fitful bouts of sleep, his heart seizing, lungs frozen. Of course, he'd asked for news, and of course he was denied. He hadn't even been told where he was being taken for trial.

And what of the men? He'd drawn the attention of the privateers with explosions and mayhem so Snape and the others who'd survived the battle could escape. He'd stayed with his ship as long as he could, and would have remained to the end if he hadn't been beaten into submission by too many men to fight. _The Death Eater_ might sail again, but without Lord Voldemort.

He laughed harshly, rats scurrying at the burst of sound. Lord Voldemort was dead, at least in spirit, with his body soon to follow. His ending had been inevitable, and he only wished it had not come at Harry's expense. All that for a ransom that meant nothing now.

He should have left Harry aboard that merchant ship with his sister, should have left him to his safe, comfortable future. Stifling and unfulfilling as it might have been.

One night… or day… he awoke hard, craving Harry. In his dream, Harry had reached for him, entreating him to come to bed. Yet he had been unable to move. Now he ached…

He yearned to hear Harry's cries of pleasure. To bring him bliss with mouth and hands and cock. Then to hold him as they slept, breathe him in, close and safe and warm.

He yearned to kiss him.

The loss should have been like an arm or leg destroyed in battle and then excised. Over the years, several of his men had suffered this fate, the mangled, useless limb sawed off before it could cause any more damage. An infection could spread to the bloodstream.

That ruined flesh and bone was tossed overboard, abandoned in the ship's wake to be devoured by the creatures of the deep.

Yet Harry refused to be left behind. The loss of him was more than a phantom ache or a hollowed-out chasm. No, it filled him to his very limits, unyielding pressure against his skin, expanding with every breath, choking him.

He wished his own soft, useless flesh would dissolve and leave him made of only pitiless bone.

To love could only be madness.

He'd been so certain he'd learned that lesson, but locked away with only rats for company, it was clear he was a glutton for punishment. That Harry had thrown himself into harm's way for his sake clawed at him, the guilt a living, pulsing creature. He would give anything to change it, to take the pain away and keep Harry unharmed.

He clenched his empty hands. It was foolishness to yearn for a memento he could touch, some token or scrap of cloth or jewellery, Harry's plain-handled dagger, even. He had tucked it in his boot, but it had been confiscated, lost to him now.

There was nothing tangible left of Harry. Even the scratches on his chest… the marks Harry had made when he'd insisted their relationship was real… were gone, his traitorous flesh mending.

_Real._

As the days passed in perpetual darkness, Voldemort did wonder if it had all been a feverish dream. He knew distantly that his captivity could have been worse. He wasn't tortured, and they shoved in enough water and hard biscuits to keep him alive.

Torment wasn't being trapped in the stinking bowels of the brig, knowing he would soon die. That he could accept. That fate he'd expected for years. It was the idea of living the rest of his miserable life without Harry that was utterly loathsome.

True hell was to love.

* * *

When the storm hit he wasn't surprised, the portent thick even in the scant air that reached the filth of his cell. He hated not being at the helm, and could only hope the men in charge were able. He had no reason to think they weren't, but as he was tossed from side to side like a child's plaything, he wasn't so sure.

The shackles around his wrists were attached to the wall, and his shoulders burned as he was thrown about. He feared they might be wrenched from their sockets, which of course conjured memories of Harry racing up into the rigging to rescue Lestrange. Fearless and brave and beautiful.

The yearning would have brought him to his knees if he hadn't already been sprawled, powerless in the heaving waves. Squeezing his eyes shut even though he was in darkness, he allowed himself the luxury of pretending he was back in the cabin that had been his only home for so long.

Returned to his bed, Harry sweet and sighing in his arms, their lips meeting endlessly, no words needed.

* * *

They'd survived.

And judging by the ship's speed and tell tale noises echoing along the hull, they were nearing a harbor and making to drop anchor. Sure enough, sailors came soon to drag him from his cell, pulling and shoving him like an animal. Wrists still shackled, he was barely able to get his feet under him.

The captain, a tall, older man named Kingsley who'd styled his graying hair as if it were a wig with curls over his ears, approached below decks, scowling. He buttoned his waistcoat,

"This is your final port of call, scum. I can't decide which is the worse offense… the piracy or desertion. Suppose it doesn't much matter, given you'll hang regardless. Shame you won't have a bigger audience."

To the crew nearby, he announced,

"I'm taking him ashore with the vanguard. As soon as we have our money, we're leaving this godforsaken place."

Blinking in the harsh glare, refusing to bow his head, Voldemort shuffled onto the main deck and saw Godric's Hollow by the light of day,

"Where the hell's the rest of it?"


	48. Chapter 48

The crash reverberated so violently the windows in the drawing room…which were still covered by slapdash boards… rattled. The storm had raged for days, but the sun had finally reappeared.

Harry pushed back his chair at the empty breakfast table, wincing as he stood. He followed the rumble of his Albus's indistinct shouting, meeting Luna in the hall.

She drew up short,

"Why aren't you in bed? I was about to bring your tray."

"Because I've been in bed quite long enough. I shall go mad if I don't _move_, even if it's only shuffling to the table. And why would _you_ be bringing my breakfast?"

She tucked back a loose brown curl, her hair tied in a hasty knot, flour sprinkling her blue silk skirt.

"The servants have fled. They waited until the storm abated just enough, and they're gone. Either by sea or into the interior. It doesn't matter which. Not Cecily, thank God. But the others."

"You mean the slaves?"

Luna's face flushed,

"Yes."

"Good."

She smiled,

"Yes, I think it jolly well is good. Now we need to abandon ship as well. Neville is talking to Albus about Mr. Weasley's plans to return to Jamaica and the opportunities he could provide us."

She whispered,

"I haven't told Neville that you'll be breaking your engagement. Best to let that…unfold."

He nodded as Albus roared at the end of the hall, and Neville stormed from the study to stalk down the corridor, his face an alarming shade of scarlet, breeches and waistcoat splattered with mud.

Neville hissed,

"He is being entirely unreasonable! I swear he has gone quite mad. He's still acting as if there's a colony left to govern. He won't go down to see the destruction. Perhaps things would be different if the buildings had been erected with the care necessary, but barely anything is left standing."

He rubbed his face, dark circles under his eyes,

"On that note, I must return to see what further assistance I can give."

He kissed Luna's cheek and nodded to Harry.

They watched him go, and Harry squared his shoulders,

"I'm going to speak with Albus."

"Dressed like that? Albus will…"

She shook her head,

"Listen to me. What nonsense. Yes, go speak with him. I'll see about breakfast."

She gave his arm a squeeze.

His feet were bare and his white shirt loose, but he'd pulled on clean breeches. When Harry opened the study door, he found Albus dressed fully, although one stocking sagged at the ankle and his ridiculous wig was askew. A bookcase had been toppled in his rage, a casualty that slumped across the far corner, gouging the polished floor. The boards had been torn from the study's windows, likely by Neville, since Albus's buckled shoes still shone, not a speck of mud evident.

"What?"

Albus barked.

There were many things to say, and Harry didn't know how to begin any, so he decided to jump directly into the fray,

"Captain Voldemort wasn't the first honest privateer you cheated, was he? How many men did you and your corrupt partners unfairly doom to the gallows as pirates so you could seize their ships and cargos for your own gain, lying to England about their worth?"

Albus stared at him for a long moment, stunned, as if the gilt-framed oil painting of some ancestor hunting with a dog at his feet had come to life. Finally, he said,

"After all I've done to see you home safely, you would interrogate me? I shouldn't be surprised. As ungrateful as ever."

"Answer the question. How many privateers did you cheat?"

Albus waved a dismissive hand,

"Privateers, pirates. There's hardly a difference."

"The difference is that privateers are endorsed by the Crown! Given letters of marque to legitimize them. They aid England against her enemies. If you want men to follow England's rules, then you must abide by them as well!"

"These men are savages, as you should well know."

He scowled,

"Look at the state of you. This is civilization, and you will dress and act accordingly!"

Harry ignored that,

"Some men are beasts, yes. But many have been left with no options to make a living. To have any sort of freedom from horrendous conditions, to get paid fairly. Or paid at all!"

Scoffing, Albus said,

"Worthless dregs of men. Besides, your argument, if one can call it that, has a fatal flaw: Captain Voldemort is a deserter from the Royal Navy."

Behind his desk, he snatched up a sheaf of paper and thrust it at Harry. Then his face twisted cruelly.

"But you can't read, being utterly feeble-minded. Leave this business to the men who understand it. Men with all their wits."

Despite Harry's best efforts to steel himself, the blows landed. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, and Albus sensed blood in the water.

"Shall I read it to you? I'll use small words."

He cleared his throat,

"Tom Marvolo Riddle incited a mutiny aboard the _HMS Leaside,_ then deserted on the twelfth day of…"

Harry stopped listening to his Albus, instead rolling the name around in his mind with care, as if the words might break.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle…._

_Tom…_


	49. Chapter 49

Behind his desk, he snatched up a sheaf of paper and thrust it at Harry. Then his face twisted cruelly.

"But you can't read, being utterly feeble-minded. Leave this business to the men who understand it. Men with all their wits."

Despite Harry's best efforts to steel himself, the blows landed. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, and Albus sensed blood in the water.

"Shall I read it to you? I'll use small words."

He cleared his throat,

"Tom Marvolo Riddle incited a mutiny aboard the _HMS Leaside,_ then deserted on the twelfth day of…"

Harry stopped listening to his Albus, instead rolling the name around in his mind with care, as if the words might break.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle…._

_Tom…_

It was a beautiful name, and if Voldemort heard that, he'd snort and dismiss it. The pang of longing rocked Harry, and he had to reach out for the edge of Albus's desk.

He craved to hear Voldemort's voice again and feel the rough warmth of his touch…Simply to talk to him, to just _be_, to do anything as long as they were together. Harry would rescue him, no matter the cost.

"And as such, Tom Riddle…"

Albus sneered disdainfully,

"now known as the notorious pirate, Lord Voldemort… should receive no quarter."

Standing straight again, ignoring the dull throbbing of his wound, Harry clenched his fists, thinking of the scars on Voldemort's flesh,

"A deserter of a navy that enslaved him. You talk of savages… how is our government any better? They stole him from his home and impressed him against his will. Yes, he eventually deserted under a cruel tyrant of a captain after years of service. And despite this, he _still_ wanted to aid his country. You destroyed that. He wasn't the first, was he? You lied and stole. You cheated for your own gain."

"Oh, for God's sake."

Albus's face reddened and creased,

"Enough of this nonsense. What does it matter? This pirate almost killed you, and you argue for his welfare? You truly are a simpleton."

"You forget that I was there. I know it was your man who attacked, waiting for his opening to kill V…Captain Voldemort. I foiled his assassination attempt. He had to have known it was suicide. I wonder how you convinced him to do your bidding; what threat you employed. And why you tried to have Captain Voldemort killed like that and not in a public spectacle."

"If that bumbling fool Taylor had been on time with the brigantine—"

Albus broke off, nostrils flaring,

"I had to have a secondary plan in place. The pirate had to die one way or another. I could not be bested by that _nothing_ of a man. I had to prove that pirates will fall if they dare cross Governor Dumbledore. I had to be the one responsible for Lord Voldemort's demise."

He slammed his fist onto the desk, an inkpot rattling,

"I am to be respected!"

"And what of me? If your assassin had hit his target, do you think the pirates would still have released me? Or if they'd realized the ransom was largely counterfeit?"

Albus's cheek twitched, a nervous tic,

"It would have been…regrettable. But in war, some losses must be borne."

Harry stared at his mentor, this stranger in a crooked wig who had loomed so large over his life even from across the ocean. His voice was hoarse as he said,

"You're the criminal."

Narrowing his eyes, Albus hissed,

"We both know you haven't the wits to understand how the world works. You are my greatest disappointment. To think I was so determined to pass on everything to you…."

He broke off, swallowing thickly… Guilt slashed through Harry, anger eager on its heels,

"I never asked to be your heir… I don't want to inherit anything… Not that there's anything to inherit. You are bankrupt, morally and otherwise."

Ignoring the jab, Albus shrugged,

"Temporarily. There is a fortune up for grabs, and you will marry the Weasley girl and acquire it. Her brother is dead, and her father has willed everything to her. Even if the fool returns to Jamaica, as long as you marry the girl, we will eventually have enough to rebuild here. I'll make the Crown see that Godric's Hollow is not dead. Weasley's an old man. His heart is failing. God willing, it won't be long until the girl inherits."

"I won't marry her… I don't love her…"

Albus gaped,

"_Love_? What does that have to do with anything? I know you are an imbecile, so I will explain the situation slowly. Marriage…"

"Go to hell."

Albus jerked, more blood rushing to his face,

"My boy, you are treading on thin ground."

Harry shook his head, saying it louder this time,

"GO TO HELL…I won't give up my life for your delusion. You've destroyed this place with your greed. Almost everyone has fled. Luna and Neville are going to Jamaica with Mr. Weasley. The Crown pulled out the militia weeks ago, Neville told me. There's nothing left. He said the buildings are almost all flattened but for this one and several others. It's over."

The bell at the front door rang distantly, and in the silence following it, they stared at each other. The paper in Albus's hands shook, and he smoothed out the pages on his desk,

"I will not accept defeat. Godric's Hollow will thrive. So, help me, I shall be respected."

The bell rang again, and he snapped,

"For God's sake, why isn't anyone answering that?"

"Because they've all gone, Father. It is the worst wickedness to enslave people, and I pray they are never returned to you."

A voiced called,

"Er… Hello?"

"In here!"

Albus barked,

"What do you want?"

The messenger appeared in the doorway, a boy of about twelve with a shock of blond curls and mud caking his shoes and trousers almost to the knees,

"The pirate has been delivered."

As Harry tried not to sag in relief, Albus clapped his hands once,

"Ah! Some good news this morning. Excellent."

"Captain Taylor is demanding his fee, sir. He's taken the pirate back aboard until you deliver it."

Harry eyed his father's pinched face. _My God, he doesn't have it._ His mind whirled. If the messenger relayed that to Taylor, there was no telling what would become of Voldemort.

Harry spoke to the messenger,

"Please tell Captain Taylor he will be paid in full tomorrow morning. In the wake of the storm's devastation, the governor is occupied assisting his citizens."

With a dubious glance at Albus, the boy nodded and scurried away.

A vein pulsed in Albus's temple,

"I do not require your assistance. I am the governor, and my word is law. When I demand the prisoner be handed over, Taylor will do as instructed, or regret it."

_You'll revoke his letter of marque too? Without a single redcoat to help enforce your rule?_

Harry bit his tongue, letting Albus entertain his delusions for the moment.

Albus spoke almost to himself,

"Yes, let Taylor keep him tonight, and tomorrow at noon, Captain Voldemort shall swing. It will be a historic day for Godric's Hollow. We have withstood the hurricane, and we will see the fearsome pirate who has terrorized these seas brought to justice. They said it couldn't be done, that he was some kind of sorcerer. Now the New World will see he is only flesh and blood. Thanks to me."

Harry's feet itched to run to the harbour, but he had to be patient. There was only one thing to do, and he would have to wait for the cover of darkness.


	50. Chapter 50

Harry?"

"Hmm?"

He tried to smile.

Luna's brow creased, and she swiped at a stray curl, her skin flushed,

"You're staring. What's the matter?"

_I'm memorizing your dear face because I shall never see it again,_

"Nothing."

Grace fussed in her arms, but Luna waved off Cecily. Ginny smiled wanly and said to Harry,

"Your sister's such a dedicated mother. I hope it comes as naturally to me."

She worried a pleat on her full skirt between her fingers, the tight bodice of her yellow dress thrusting up her bosoms. Traces of dirt clung stubbornly to the dress's hem, although she'd tried to clean her slippers. She had to be unbearably hot.

"Mmm,"

He answered. He belatedly added,

"I'm sure you'll make a fine mother,"

And Ginny beamed. Guilt simmered in his gut.

Even in the shade of the house, which had lost most of the tiles from the roof and several windows, the afternoon heat blistered. Still, they dutifully sat at a round table. Neville had brought it out from one of the drawing rooms, since the previous garden set had been snapped into kindling.

The governor's house was inland and, on a rise, a view of the sea from the ruined garden stretching out in the distance to the east, away from the commotion of the harbour. From this vantage point, there was only twisted, tangled foliage, a sea of green giving way to blue.

They drank tea and ate day-old biscuits, pretending the island didn't lie in waste around them, that felled trees with gnarled roots didn't litter the property. That the remaining inhabitants of Godric's Hollow weren't fleeing, too many buildings blown asunder, the failing colony now clearly irrecoverable.

From a distance, the strident voices of Mr. Weasley and Albus reached them, the words too faint to make out. Ginny swallowed thickly and stirred another cube of sugar into her tea with rapid clanks of her spoon. Luna gave her a sympathetic smile, then raised her eyebrows at Harry.

Yet he couldn't muster any soothing words. Not when they were still pretending that Ginny and Harry would marry. The truth seethed on his tongue, eager to fly into the still air amid the cicadas' droning chorus.

_I'm a sodomite, and the pirate king claimed me every way you could imagine… and some you likely can't even fathom. I'm going to rescue him and cleave to him if he'll have me. I want to live out my days at his side, because even if they are severely numbered, it will be truly living._

"Is it ever this hot in England?"

Ginny asked, her voice trembling as another echo of their fathers' fury reached what was left of the garden, even the grass beneath their feet churned to bits.

Luna and Harry looked to each other, and Luna leaned over to give Ginny's hand a kind squeeze.

"No. Summers are very pleasant there."

"We left when I was so young that I can't recall. I should like to visit one day. Although most of all I'd like to go home to Jamaica."

Harry said,

"I think you soon shall."

_I hope you do, with all my heart._

Albus's voice rang out,

"If there will be no gallows built in time, then we'll hang him from a God-damned tree!"

Luna's mouth tightened, her sympathetic gaze too much to bear. Harry imagined Voldemort aboard the brig for the hundredth time, so close and still out of reach until nightfall. Was he injured? Fed? Had the privateers treated him fairly?

Bile surged into his throat at the thought of Voldemort suffering, and he gripped his teacup so tightly he might have shattered it if Luna hadn't covered his quivering hand with her own, guiding the cup back to its saucer.

"Are you well?"

Ginny asked, leaning toward him, then shaking her head,

"But of course, you aren't. It must distress you terribly, knowing that monster is so close at hand."

"It does,"

He agreed, struggling to keep his tone even.

Ginny sighed,

"I can't wait to leave this place."

"Nor can I,"

Harry added truthfully,

"I think soon we shall let nature reclaim Godric's Hollow."

On his feet, grimacing through a wave of pain in his belly, he gave Ginny a stiff bow, then leaned over Luna to kiss Grace's plump cheek, clenching his fingers to keep from trembling. Luna watched him intently, and hot tears pricked his eyes.

He kissed her forehead and tore himself away, counting the minutes as the day ticked away more slowly than any he could recall.

There were preparations to be made.


	51. Chapter 51

In the end, he wore his funeral suit.

It was somehow fitting. Buttoning the black coat over his dark shirt, forgoing the waistcoat, he regarded himself in the tall mirror in the corner of his chamber.

His hair was longer than when he'd left England, curling over his ears now, face dotted with a few new freckles. Any tan he'd acquired had faded during his convalescence, but the freckles remained.

Somehow he appeared older, although he wasn't sure when he'd be able to grow a proper beard. He was too thin, and his weakened, soft muscles cried out for activity. They'd soon have it.

He wished he had trousers instead of breeches, and boots rather than the silly black stockings and buckled shoes, but they would have to do. The most important thing he did have was Albus's pistol, liberated from his study when Albus had been busy in the drawing room shouting at Neville to see to the hasty construction of a gallows. Albus was determined to have his spectacle for the few dozen people left on Godric's Hollow. For his lunatic pride.

Carefully tucking the pistol into the back of his breeches, Harry reached for his long dark cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders. It made him think of Voldemort's coat. The burning to see Voldemort again, to smell and taste and hold him, set his head spinning.

He hadn't wanted food at all, his stomach knotted with the wound and nerves, but he'd forced himself to eat bread and a cold chicken leg. He'd need every ounce of strength he could muster.

Staring at himself critically in the flickering candlelight, he weighed whether he was at all capable of appearing intimidating. The cloak helped, but he needed… Ah! He knew just the thing and went in search of a sewing kit.

A short time later, Harry held the needle to the hiss of the candle's flame. Leaning close to the mirror, he tugged down his right earlobe and winced as he carefully impaled it. A spot of blood appeared, and he squeezed the pierced flesh for a minute, then sucked the blood from his fingertips.

The metallic tang tasted of his first kiss, and he closed his eyes, remembering their desperate coupling against the palm tree; how they'd almost devoured each other when their mouths had finally met.

As night fell, he forced himself to stretch out and rest. Waiting. He had a satchel prepared with clothing, medicine, silver candlesticks and cutlery, and a golden snuffbox. He wasn't sure how much Albus had promised Captain Taylor, but surely some gold and silver was better than nothing.

It was near midnight when Harry slipped into Luna's dressing room with a letter, his candle cutting a swath through the shadows. He placed the letter carefully on the table and opened her jewellery box.

While she hadn't had any jewels of worth left when they'd travelled to the New World, she'd mentioned Albus had insisted that on Godric's Hollow, his daughter's ears and throat would gleam with gems and pearls. Lord knew how he'd acquired them.

Harry's heart skipped as her chamber door creaked open. Glancing over her shoulder, she crept in and closed the door behind her,

"I've been waiting,"

She whispered, looking between him and the dresser, face creasing,

"You were only intending to leave a note?"

"I thought it might be easier."

The ache in his belly from the wound pulsed, and his chest and throat tightened, threatening to choke him,

"How did you know?"

"That you would attempt to rescue your…pirate? I know you, Harry. You have always been brave and pure of heart."

She frowned,

"Yet… Are you…_stealing_ from me?"

"No! Well… Yes."

He nodded to the letter,

"I explained it. I need an earring. And a few of your jewels as payment to the privateer."

Her hair was loose, nightgown slipping off one shoulder. Barefoot, she trod quietly toward him,

"An earring? What on Earth are you talking about? You know this is madness. What if you get yourself killed?"

She glanced behind her, then to Harry, and back again.

"Please, Luna. If you alert Neville, it will put him in an untenable position. He must remain blameless so you can start anew in Jamaica. I'm leaving, one way or another. I'm embarking on a new life. I must look the part. It's silly, I know. An earring. It feels symbolic, though."

"A new life as a _pirate_?"

"I don't know. All I know is that I must save him. And even if…"

The idea that Voldemort wouldn't want him after everything was a lead ball in his gut, and he tasted bile, the uncertainty of it all gnawing at his nerves,

"Even if it doesn't turn out the way I want, Harry Potter will be dead. I must forge a new path, and you must go to Jamaica with Neville and get out from under Albus's thumb. He doesn't care about any of us. Only his own glory. He's gone mad."

"I know. Oh, Harry. But I only just got you back."

Her eyes glistened in the candlelight.

He whispered,

"Tell me you understand."

Lips trembling, she gave another look over her shoulder at the closed door to her chambers, where Neville snored faintly. Then she took the candle and bent over the jewellery box, putting on a brave face, voice quavering,

"Silver or gold?"

His throat was so thick he could barely answer,

"Gold."

After several moments, she straightened up and set down the candle on the polished wood dresser. He turned his pierced ear toward her, and she gently inserted a small, simple hoop,

"There. You look quite the swashbuckler now."

"Thank you."

He barely managed to get the words out.

She inspected her jewellery box,

"Here. You must take all of these. I have pearls, and these earrings are ruby. Oh, this necklace as well. And these. None should have been mine in the first place. Albus likely cheated them from someone."

"No, I couldn't."

She gave him a sharp look,

"Open your pockets. You certainly can. And you will."

He nodded, not speaking for fear he'd sob. They embraced fiercely, and he inhaled her lavender scent, resting his cheek against her soft, wild curls.

Harry told himself it was a luxury most people were never afforded… to know beyond doubt it was the last time he'd see her. They would never meet again in this life barring a miracle, but as he tore himself away and picked up the candle, he said a quick prayer for a merciful reunion in the next.

"I shall think of you always and wish you only happiness."

Luna took a shuddering, wet breath as he opened the door to the hall.

Harry couldn't resist turning for a last look, hating that he could see the tears so clearly on her cheeks even though she stood half in shadow beyond the candle's reach,

"And I you. Always."

He plunged into the corridor with his satchel, carefully slinging it over his shoulder, wincing as pain lanced through his stomach. Downstairs, light shone from beneath the door of Albus's study, and Harry realized the rumble he heard was Albus's drunken muttering.

Part of him wanted to fling open the door and savour the look on Albus's face when he discovered his only son was running away for a life of sodomy with an enemy, and that Voldemort would escape his noose if Harry had his way.

But, of course Albus wasn't worth it… not even a little bit… and Harry slipped into the night without a word. Voldemort was waiting, and he was all that mattered.

Harry was barely out of the crumbling house's shadow when a figure appeared out of the foliage, hissing,

"Mr. Potter! It's me, Rabastan Lestrange…"

He had a pistol in hand, and the blade of his sword gleamed in the moonlight.

"Mr. Lestrange?"

Harry stared at him, not quite believing his eyes.

Rabastan grinned,

"I'm no phantom, I assure you. I'm relieved to see you alive, let alone up and about."

He held out his hand, and Harry clasped it. His wound already tugged, but he ignored it,

"I'm glad to see you too. You've come to rescue the captain?"

"Aye. Mr. Snape and some of the others are waiting in the hills west of the harbour while a few of us get the lay of the land. We stole a little sloop in Hispaniola. Left her on the windward side. Have two dozen crew, barely enough men to sail her, but we had to try and save Captain Voldemort. He gave himself up so we could escape those privateers."

Harry's pulse raced, but he breathed easier,

"I was just going to attempt a rescue of my own, and I'm extremely glad to hear I won't be doing it alone. Voldemort is aboard the privateer ship anchored in the harbour."

"All right, you leave it to us. The captain would never forgive us if you were hurt again. We'll swim out and board them before they know what's happening."

"But surely you'll be vastly outnumbered?"

Rabastan grimaced,

"Aye, but we'll have surprise on our side. It will have to be enough."

"But if it's not?"

The idea of Voldemort being so close at hand and then killed in some bloody brawl was unbearable,

"I have another idea. A better one, I wager. Less violent."

"It'll be up to Mr. Snape."

"I'm sure I can convince him. Perhaps with your help?"

"Aye, if it saves the captain and our own skins, I'm all for it."

Rabastan glanced at the house,

"Are you planning on coming back?"

Imagining Luna and her babe inside, Harry swallowed hard over the lump in his throat. He shook his head and plunged into the night.


	52. Chapter 52

As if he'd never left, Voldemort huddled in the dank hold in total darkness. His leather coat and boots would possibly never dry, but it seemed fitting Captain Voldemort would wear his costume to the end.

Damp, with rats scurrying, it was a foretaste of the grave save for the lack of earth and wriggling insects. The ship creaked at anchor, the quiet indicating it was likely still night. He wondered again if Harry was safe and well, or even alive.

_Please live. Please._

It seemed Albus Dumbledore didn't have the privateer's fee, so the noose would wait for another day. Voldemort slept fitfully, no longer sure of when he woke or dreamt.

When there were shouts and splashes and the thudding footsteps of multiple men, he wasn't sure if he'd slept again and now it was morning, his execution at hand—assuming Albus had satisfied Captain Taylor.

But when he was hauled up to the main deck once more, stars blanketed the heavens. He peered around, discerning two tense groups at odds. Some of the privateer crew were scattered around the deck, weapons outs. Captain Taylor stood in the center, eyeing a cluster of men by the starboard rail.

In the silvery light, he immediately recognized the slope of Snape's shoulders and his silhouette. His heart soared. And yes, there were some other crewmen he knew alongside Snape, and…

Knees almost giving out, he knew joy more powerful than he'd dreamed possible. He opened his mouth to call out to Harry, then snapped it shut lest he put him in more danger.

His heart was a war drum, steady and true, ready to shake off the hands gripping him, ready to gnaw through their fingers with his teeth if it meant getting to Harry, who _lived._

Harry stood dressed in black, a cloak concealing his body. His curls were tousled, and something glinted in his ear. His face seemed pale, but Voldemort wasn't sure if it was the moonlight or the effects of the stabbing. He itched to hold him and feel for himself that Harry was whole.

"All right,"

Captain Taylor said,

"I'm listening."

His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. One of the gray curls over his ears sagged, and he'd shrugged on his jacket without a waistcoat, likely hastily woken in his cabin.

Instead of Snape speaking, Harry did, and Voldemort could only gape as he said,

"I'm Harry Potter. I understand Albus owes you a considerable sum."

"That he does. Twenty-five thousand pounds, a quarter of your ransom. Told him I wouldn't take less to go after Lord Voldemort."

Taylor glanced over,

"Although he isn't quite so fearsome now."

Some of the privateer crew sneered and laughed.

Voldemort ignored them, willing Harry to look his way. Yet Harry remained focused on Taylor, who asked disbelievingly,

"Are you in league with these pirates now, Potter?"

"I am. I've had quite enough of Albus and his lies."

He spoke with such conviction. Pride washed through him with a wave of _want._

Harry went on, shoulders squared and head high,

"We have your twenty-five thousand pounds, as well as some gold and silver from Albus's house as a bonus. All we ask is Captain Voldemort's return, and safe passage away from this cursed place."

If this was a dream, Voldemort would gladly sleep forever. He held his breath as Taylor pondered it. Harry added,

"Albus doesn't have two shillings to rub together. If you throw in your lot with him, you will end up with nothing."

He motioned toward land,

"You can see for yourself the colony has collapsed."

Taylor grimaced,

"Indeed."

"Albus will cheat you, just as he did Captain Voldemort, who was once a privateer like yourself until his letter of marque was revoked without warning for a fabricated offense. To avoid his debt, Albus will not hesitate to do the same to you."

Taylor shifted from foot to foot, his face pinched, Harry added,

"Surely there has been enough blood spilled thanks to Albus? And surely you do not think our numbers are this small?" He indicated Snape and their little party, Lestrange and Nott and a few others.

Taylor's crew shuffled uneasily, peering out at the water and squinting toward land. Taylor's lips thinned. Then he said,

"Let me see the money. And this silver and gold."

It was done quickly after that, a sack handed over and inspected, and Voldemort unshackled and shoved toward his men at the rail. Toward his lover. He cupped Harry's face all too briefly, thrilling at the feel of him warm and whole and _alive_.

He ached to kiss and hold him and say a hundred other things he didn't have words for, but they weren't safe yet,

"Thank you,"

he murmured. It would have to suffice as he turned his attention back to Captain Taylor, who motioned dismissively.

"All right, off with you!"

Snape said,

"Our ship is a small sloop. If you think to engage us once we are aboard her…"

"I think to get the hell away from this place and back to chasing Spanish treasure ships."

Taylor sneered,

"Begone."

Soon they were over the rail and down into a small launch, rowing back to shore. Harry sat in the bow with too many men squeezed between them for Voldemort to reach him. Voldemort grabbed an oar and rowed vigorously.

After splashing ashore, Voldemort and Harry fell into step together, and Voldemort took his hand, squeezing his fingers, aching to kiss him and feel for himself that he truly was healed and alive and not a ghost.

Harry bumped their shoulders together and whispered,

"We must stay on our guard."

Indeed they must, and Voldemort forced his attention to navigating the debris-laden path past the eerily quiet harbour where only a few small ships remained.

The colony's buildings had largely been flattened, water still flooding ditches, trees uprooted. Whatever citizens remained likely huddled in the church, which had been made of stone and withstood the storm, or several other larger buildings visible in the distance at the edge of the jungle forest.

Voldemort kept a careful watch, ready to tear out the throat of anyone who would dare stand in their way.

Then there appeared such a man indeed.

Albus did not come upon them by surprise, instead announcing his presence with a tumult of footsteps and cursing, practically frothing at the mouth as he shouted,

"So, it is true! You are in league with these villains!"

Voldemort gripped Harry's hand, and with his other, reached to Lestrange, who passed over his sword wordlessly. A large, curly-haired man who had yanked on breeches under his nightshirt followed after Albus, slip-sliding down the slope in bare feet.

Harry called,

"Neville, I'm all right. Please stay back."

To Voldemort, he added,

"He is my sister's husband. A good man. Please don't harm him."

Voldemort nodded and regarded Albus, meeting him face-to-face for the first time since that fateful day in the Admiralty Court. Although he wanted to lunge and strangle the man with his bare hands, he nodded and calmly said,

"Good evening, Governor."

Albus's wig had come off, and his silver hair stood up at all angles. He was fully dressed, his shoes and stockings splattered with mud, eyes wild,

"I thought the messenger had gone mad when he said my heir had been spotted down here. My heir, who has barely been out of bed, my heir…"

He broke off, mouth dropping open as his gaze fell to where Voldemort and Harry held hands, their fingers entwined.

Harry said,

"Your heir, who is a sodomite. Your heir, who is in love with Captain Voldemort, and who is leaving to make a life with him."

All the soft places in Voldemort that had festered when he and Harry had been parted now healed in an instant, his heart singing as it hadn't in decades. He squeezed Harry's hand, which trembled slightly.

Albus stared agog, and Neville did too. Then Albus snapped his jaw shut, growling and baring his teeth in a grimace,

"You little imbecile. You have always been weak and useless. I should have seen that you were an abomination as well!"

The words still echoed as Voldemort let go of Harry and surged forward, toppling Albus to the ground, his boot on Albus's chest and sword at his throat.

Albus screamed,

"Neville! Do something, you coward!"

Voldemort glanced at Neville, who shook his head, backing up. To Harry, he said,

"Take good care, brother."

"I will. You as well. Luna and Grace."

Neville nodded, then gazed down at Albus, squirming in the mud,

"As you sow, so shall you reap."

With that, he turned and marched back up the slope, disappearing into the torn foliage.

It would be so easy—to skewer Albus with his blade, to slice open his throat, or even cleave off his head and display it on a pike for all to see, a reminder that Lord Voldemort should never be crossed.

Yet as he watched the man whimper and curse in the mud, at turns defiant and petrified, his fury faded. This man who had changed the course of Voldemort's life, whom he'd hated with such passion for so long, had destroyed himself.

"You're not worth another moment of my time."

He lifted his blade, and Albus sputtered, perhaps at the affront to his pride.

Voldemort wanted to spit on Albus's face, but he only stepped back and reached blindly for Harry's hand, breathing deeply when Harry's warm fingers grasped his.

At Voldemort's side, Harry peered down at Albus,

"Goodbye, Albus."

In their wake, Albus screamed curses, left behind in the muck and utterly ignored.


	53. Chapter 53

If any further alarm had been sounded, it didn't echo across the water as their ship headed west, what was left of the colony fading from view. The sails of Captain Taylor's ship could be seen in the distance, and they kept a wide berth.

"Can it really be over?"

Harry whispered, standing at the stern. He held his hand, his thumb rubbing idly, gaze on their wake and the ripples soon swallowed by the sea. He'd already stripped off his stockings, shoes, and cloak.

"We are due some winds of fortune, wouldn't you say?"

Harry's eyes met his, a tentative smile on his lips,

"I would say yes."

Content to let Snape issue orders, he struggled for the right words,

"I… I feared you dead. On account of saving my sorry hide. It was…"

His chest tightened,

"Never do anything that foolhardy again. Promise me."

Harry shrugged,

"No. It would be a lie. Because I'd risk anything for you."

Voldemort swore softly, yet he couldn't deny the warmth flowing through him,

"Clearly, since you did it again tonight."

"I knew you might turn me away… may still. But I had to try. I couldn't live with the regret. At least this way I'll be certain."

"Turn you away? From rescuing me from execution? Surely you don't think me daft in my old age."

Harry's gaze skittered away,

"No. I mean from…this. Us. You said…"

He gripped his fingers,

"A great many things."

With his free hand, he lifted Harry's chin, brushing his knuckle over the little divot, not needing to see it to know exactly where it was,

"Lies for what I believed to be your benefit. On that island, when I saw you soaked in blood… I only wanted to protect you. Now here you are, safeguarding me once again. Why? After everything I've done."

"I meant what I said. I love you."

Harry gazed at him and hitched his shoulders,

"Maybe it's dunderheaded, but I've never been that bright."

He let go of his hand to cup Harry's cheek,

"You are no man's lesser. Least of all mine. And the love I have for you is like no other."

He was filthy and had to smell foul, but Harry kissed him deeply, sighing into his mouth, tugging him close, eager and precious and perfect. The salt tang in the air filled his nose, coupled with a scent that was all Harry… musky sweetness.

Then Harry stiffened with a gasp. Before Voldemort could ask, he assured him,

"It's nothing. The wound is just a bit sore."

With a rueful smile, he ran his fingers over his cheek,

"Don't look so guilty. As I said, it's nothing. You must keep kissing me."

Although he didn't think his regret and shame over the stabbing would ever abate… even now, he had a vision of Harry throwing himself into the blade's path… he could only acquiesce, bringing their lips together once more, tongues softly exploring.

"Ahem."

Voldemort and Harry turned to find Snape a few feet away, wearing an expression that comprised exasperation, fondness, and resignation. He asked,

"Where would you like to be delivered?"

Voldemort raised an eyebrow,

"You aren't going to try and convince me to stay on as captain?"

Snape sighed,

"I know a lost cause when I see it."

He smiled,

"Should we say Port Royal? Harry and I can gather supplies and plot our course. What is left of the ransom?"

Snape huffed,

"Well, we'd already suspected most of it was counterfeit, with the true thing on top for good measure. Mr. Potter here confirmed it."

"Ah,"

Voldemort said,

"And the payment to Captain Taylor?"

"Mostly counterfeit, with the true thing on top for good measure."

They all laughed, and Voldemort reached out his hand,

"Thank you. For everything. And for letting me go."

Snape clasped his palm,

"Well, if you insist on this nonsense, who am I to stand in your way?"

He yanked him into a rough embrace, and he gripped him, throat too tight to speak.

Clearing his own throat, Snape stepped back and eyed Harry,

"I suppose the young lord has proven himself."

He offered his hand, and Harry took it, grinning. Then Snape spun away, grumbling and returning to the helm to bark more orders.

He would miss him.

When Voldemort and Harry turned back to the rail, the waxing moon caught the gleam in Harry's ear. He ran his finger over the golden hoop as Harry huffed out a laugh and said,

"I thought I should look like a proper pirate to rescue you."

Voldemort followed his gaze over the ship's wake, their only pursuers a flock of birds swooping across the night sky as one,

"And rescue me you have."

Gently, he eased the earring open and removed it from Harry's ear. Harry laughed again.

"Does it look that foolish on me?"

Wordlessly, for none could do justice to his affection, he removed his own earring and fit it into the fresh hole in Harry's ear. Mirth vanished; Harry watched intently as Voldemort then slid the gold hoop into his own ear.

Harry was silent for so long Voldemort thought perhaps his meaning wasn't clear… that he wanted no other by his side for the rest of his days. But then Harry leaned in and captured his mouth in a breathless, fervent kiss that said everything.


	54. Chapter 54

Voldemort would never harm Harry again, but in that moment, he missed the days when Harry would quiver in his presence. It was useful in getting his way. He tried again, roaring,

"When did it start bleeding?"

From where he was stretched out on the pallet in the captain's cabin, Harry shrugged in the faint light,

"Sometime during our escape."

"Sometime…"

Voldemort echoed, cold, clammy sweat trickling down his spine in the humid dawn.

Once he'd been certain they were far enough from Godric's Hollow and weren't being chased, Voldemort had tugged Harry belowdecks with a smile, eager to get cleaned up and lock themselves away. His visions of claiming Harry until they reached Port Royal had vanished when he'd felt the dampness on Harry's dark shirt, his hand coming away a terrifying red.

He demanded angrily,

"Why didn't you tell me the wound had reopened?"

"There was nothing you could have done about it. I didn't want to trouble you with it."

"Mr. Ollivander! Get down here this instant!"

Voldemort marched to the door to go drag down the surgeon, whom he'd seen amongst the remaining crew,

"You will stay here. In bed. Yes?"

Harry made a show of contemplating it, and if Voldemort's heart wasn't in his throat, he'd have been charmed. Harry said,

"I wouldn't really call this a _bed. _It's more of a hard hammock, the way it's suspended by ropes."

Voldemort pressed his lips together and did his most fearsome _loom_ over the small cabin's pallet,

"I will throttle you if you so much as sit up."

"Well, then I _will_ need the surgeon."

Harry had the nerve to smile,

"It's really nothing."

"'Nothing' apparently does not have the same meaning for you as it does me."

He narrowed his eyes at the blood that had soaked through the bandage on Harry's stomach,

"This is not nothing! It's because of me you were injured in the first place."

Harry lifted his hand, and Voldemort took it, sinking to his knees. Harry said,

"Because of Albus… Not you."

He squeezed Voldemort's fingers,

"I'll rest now. I promise. Go get the surgeon, and I'm sure he'll agree that all is well."

Voldemort kissed him quickly and stood, or else he'd dally too long against those lips, the novelty of their mouths meeting still too fresh. He couldn't imagine tiring of tasting Harry or hearing his sighs. Harry asked,

"Would you give me a real smile?"

"What?"

"There is a vast difference between that hollow grimace and a true, joyful smile. I have charted them."

Warmth bloomed despite his worry,

"Have you?"

"Mmm. I've become an expert."

"Well, I'll be sure to smile genuinely as soon as the bloody surgeon tells me there's nothing to fear."

Fortunately, Lestrange arrived with Mr. Ollivander, who clucked his tongue as he examined Harry while Voldemort paced the tiny cabin, contemplating ripping out said tongue with his bare hands. Lestrange shot him nervous glances. Finally, Ollivander pronounced,

"He should recover nicely… I'll re-stitch the wound, and as long as you rest and eat to keep up your strength, you'll be good as new."

Voldemort glowered,

"Oh, he'll rest… Trust me."

Harry said, rolling his eyes,

"Thank you, Mr. Ollivander."

Ollivander asked.

"Any rum on hand? Because this will hurt."

After Voldemort rummaged through the cabin, Harry had several slugs and nodded,

"Ready… If I drink any more, I might puke it up."

He caught Voldemort's eye and gave him a secret smile.

Sinking to Harry's side, Voldemort took his hand and told Ollivander to be careful. As the surgeon worked, Harry squeezed tightly, his lips pressed together, nostrils flaring. But he withstood it, as he did everything, and Voldemort bent to kiss his forehead, not caring what Ollivander or Lestrange might think.

When Ollivander had finished and left, Voldemort sat on the pallet with Harry's head pillowed in his lap. He twisted a curl around his finger, listening as Lestrange recounted what he knew of the rest of the surviving crew, who had splintered in their desperation to escape. Lestrange leaned against the nearby desk, clearly weary.

Voldemort said,

"They'll probably show up in Port Royal or Hogsmeade before too long."

"Perhaps you could gather them together again."

Harry slurred his words a bit,

"Form another crew with another captain."

"I suppose. Mr. Snape is capable but reluctant. The captain is a hard act to follow. How do you top Lord Voldemort?"

Harry shrugged against Voldemort's knee,

"Maybe you don't. Maybe you re…re…resurrect him."

"I think that's enough rum for you."

Voldemort laughed,

"And no, I'm quite finished with piracy."

"Not you. Someone else. It's the name that matters, isn't it? The repudiation? No. Reputation? I mean, most people don't know what Voldemort actually looks like."

Lestrange swigged from the bottle of rum,

"Aye. Some men in the New World have seen him, but plenty haven't. Wouldn't that be something? Lord Voldemort sailing again."

Voldemort found himself smiling, and he thought Harry would deem it a real, proper smile,

"He escaped from Godric's Hollow before its demise. Who can say where he ended up? Who can say what he truly looks like?"

He raised an eyebrow at Lestrange,

"Perhaps he grew his hair."

Lestrange blinked,

"You mean…"

He looked over his shoulder and back again,

"_Me_?"

"The thing that would identify him beyond a doubt would of course be the tattoo across his chest. A skull with a snake protruding out of its mouth."

Voldemort gently eased out from under Harry's head so he could shrug off his leather coat. He nodded to Lestrange, holding it out.

Lestrange watched him with wonder, unmistakable excitement lighting his eyes. Voldemort swung the coat over Lestrange's slimmer shoulders. He was a little shorter as well, but still a big enough man. Besides, it didn't matter. He would do quite nicely as long as he held himself proud and aloof. Powerful.

"Me?"

Lestrange asked again,

"A legendary pirate? Oh, I'm not sure."

Voldemort eyed him critically,

"Well, you'll have to work on your attitude to pull it off. It's all in the performance. Be confident. Be certain in every single thing. Betray no doubt or fear."

"Rabastan, just think of what Voldemort would say in a given situation, then sneer and growl. Should do the trick,"

Harry said,

"I've determined that three-quarters of piracy boils down to theater."

Lestrange's smile faltered,

"I wonder what my mother would think if she could see me now."

Voldemort didn't particularly care about what Lestrange's mother might think on any given subject, but Harry gave Lestrange a kind smile,

"She'd be smitten all over again. And you know, there's one more thing Lord Voldemort is famous for."

"Of course, the flag,"

Voldemort answered,

"Reproduced easily enough."

A sly smile tugged at Harry's lips,

"Yes, that. But also his boots. The golden tips announce his arrival without his having to say a word."

"I suppose they do."

After a deep breath, Voldemort could only smile as he bent and pulled his feet free of the warm, worn leather once and for all, handing them to Lestrange, who took them dubiously.

"Not sure they'll be a good fit on me. In more ways than one."

Voldemort shrugged,

"Then you and Mr. Snape find someone they fit like a glove. Lord Voldemort shall rise again like a phoenix."

Later, as Harry slept, Voldemort went to the desk and purloined the previous captain's log, smiling at the creak of the battered spine. There were books on a shelf, and he squinted at the titles.

Harry had mentioned his sister had begun reading him _Don Quixote_, and perhaps Voldemort would pick up where she'd left off in the morning.

How he'd missed his books and the sturdy captain's log, its hefty feel in his hands, as if his life had meaning and worth through its pages. He went through the earlier entries from the former commander of the ship_,_ a Captain Rosewater.

The scribblings were nothing of note, but he read through them all dutifully, then left a blank page and dipped the quill. On the next fresh slate of white, he began a list.

First item: _New boots._


End file.
